Modern Tales of Fantasy

by Joan Hazel

Dr. Layne Wade stared down from her office window. She watched as the throng of students and faculty moved from building to building and class to class. They clutched their belongings tightly to their bodies as they huddled under their umbrellas, trying to protect themselves from the ceaseless downpour.

  Blinding lightning flashed dangerously close to her building, striking one of the large moss covered oaks that lined the quad. The electrical charge in the air demanded the fine hairs along her arms to stand at attention, and they obeyed. Squeezing her eyes tightly, Layne shielded them from the blazing flash.

  Reaching behind her, she grabbed the shawl haphazardly slung over the back of her chair. In buildings as old as the one in which she worked, the temperature was never constant, and it had not taken her long to realize it was best to keep a wrap near-by.

  Returning to her post at the window, Layne continued her vigil. She tried to assess the damage done to the old oak. She always hated when one of them had to be cut down or pruned for any reason. It was a sad occasion, and she always found herself asking the Fey to forgive humans for their transgressions against nature.

  As Layne sent out a small petition for the safety of the tree, she noticed movement from within its shadows. She stared in wonder as a man appeared to step from within the trunk of the tree. Believing her vision was a trick of the lightning and the slanting rain, she rubbed her eyes and looked again.

  Layne knew almost everyone who worked at the small university where she taught, and she knew she had never seen him before because a man such as this was unforgettable.

  He strode with a steady confidence toward the building that housed Layne's office, paying little heed to the wind and rain soaking his hair and clothing.

  As if he could sense her eyes upon his form, the man stopped on the sidewalk below her window. Slowly he tipped his head upwards affording Layne a better look of his face.

  There was something different about him. He seemed to belong there, standing in the storm, his black coat billowing and whipping about his legs. Eyes as black as a moonless sky slammed into hers, displaying of a knowledge as old as time itself. A smirk curved one corner of his too perfect lips.

  Layne's body stilled. Not even breath entered or exited her lungs. He had seen her, and she sensed that whoever, or whatever, this man was, he was not of this world. Continuing onward, the man disappeared beneath her window, and Layne fought an irrational urge to run from her office in search of him. She needed confirmation that the man she saw was flesh and bone, and not some apparition from her mind.

  She rubbed the heel of her hand against her brow. Maybe the stress of her schedule was getting to her. Obviously she had spent too many hours reading and translating the ancient Welsh texts in regards to the orbs of Taliesin. Most believed the orbs to be myth, but in her heart, Layne knew they existed.

  The orbs had been pet project of her mentor and friend, Dr. Lamar Findley. In the same manner of scholars trying to prove the existence of the Holy Grail, Dr. Findley quested for proof of the orbs existence.

  Layne had found a kindred soul in Dr. Findley, not only as a musician but also in his love of mythology and ancient cultures. Often, they would share a bit of whiskey and talk for hours, expounding on their theories of the ancient Egyptians, Incas and Druids.

  It was during one such conversation that Dr. Findley introduced her to the story of the Orbs of Taliesin. “Just think of it Laynie,” he would say, his Scottish brogue thickened by a bit too much whiskey. “All of them, from Hildegard down to Schubert, their music created, not by their own hands, but as a gift from the bard of King Urien of Rheged, Taliesin.”

  Dr. Findley had pulled out journal after journal, showing Layne his research. She found his passion and exuberance infectious. Unfortunately, Dr. Findley passed away before his dream could come true, and it was in his honor that Layne took up the quest.

  With Lamar's call to arms still ringing in her head, Layne picked up one of Dr. Findley's journals. His familiar scrawl filled the pages, wearing them thin. She missed her friend and she found an odd comfort in the distinct crinkle each page made as it was turned.

  She stopped at the diagram of a time-line Lamar had laid out in his writings. The diagram closely resembled a family tree except, instead of parents and grandparents, the tree flowed with the history of the greatest composers of all time.

  Beginning with Taliesin, the line moved directly to Hildegard von Bingen before branching out to the likes of Purcell and Handel, onward to Hayden, Mozart and Beethoven, and forking its way to Schubert, Brahms and Debussy. It was enough to make any musicologist swoon.

  If Layne were truthful with herself, she would have to admit that in the beginning, even she thought Lamar Findley a bit off his rocker.

  Who in his right mind would believe the greatest composers of all time were given a set of magical orbs that, when placed upon manuscript paper, would swirl about, penning some of the most incredible music ever heard?

  Maybe her colleagues were right. Maybe the search was nothing more than the disillusions of a once brilliant mind destroyed by age and dementia.

  Closing the notebook, she placed it back among the cluttered piles upon her desk. It was nearing time for her next student, Meghan, to arrive. However, Layne held out little hope the student would actually brave the weather. More than likely Meghan would skip her lesson, and send Layne an e-mail with some feeble excuse about a hang nail.

  Oh well, she shrugged, opening her office door, just in case the student did actually appear.

  A sudden dread filled her body and she stilled her hand upon the doorknob. Thoughts of the man in the black trench coat came to her. How odd. She had almost forgotten about him.

  Pushing aside her fear, Layne opened the door and stepped out into the silence of the hallway. Even the florescent lights ceased their perpetual hum and she could not help but think of the movies where everything goes completely silent right before the vampire leaps out from the shadows.

  Layne pushed aside her foolish thoughts and wandered down the hall, peeking into the windows of deserted classrooms and listening at closed doors. Nothing. Not even one student plodding away in a practice room.

  She pulled her shawl more tightly about her body, trying to alleviate the chill that had taken up residence in her bones.

  This was nuts. If everyone else had left for the day, then why was she still there? It was silly to think any of her students were going to brave the weather. She might as well go home.

  “Dr. Wade?”

  Layne jumped at the mention of her name. She closed her eyes, swallowing the lump of anxiety that rose in her throat. Maybe, if she didn't turn around, the owner of the voice would disappear.

  “I did not mean to startle you, but aren't you Dr. Layne Wade?”

  The click of his heels sounded like thunder in her ears. She sucked in a deep breath, exhaling slowly before turning to face him.

  The man stood with an air of superiority that made him appear much taller than he actually was. Layne was puzzled by the fact that, although the man had come in from a horrendous rainstorm, he was completely dry.

  “You are Dr. Wade, are you not?” he asked with an accent as dark and intoxicating as his looks.

  “May I help you?” She cringed at the sound of her own voice cracking like a 12-year-old boy going through puberty.

  “I am Bartholomew.” He kissed the back of her hand.

  The brush of his lips sent her stomach into free fall, and she tucked her hand close against her body, hoping he did not sense what his touch had done to her.

  “How may I help you?” she asked.

  “I believe it is I who can help you.”

  “How so?” she asked, forcing more composure than she felt.

  “I would prefer we speak in the privacy of your office,” he said, motioning toward her door.

  Layne bit her bottom lip nervously. There were many places she may wish to be, but behind closed doors with a perfect stranger was not one of them.
It did not matter how incredibly sexy he was. In fact, that was all the more reason for them to stay out in the openness of the hallway.

  “Please, Ms. Wade. I have news for you concerning the orbs.” He lowered his voice so no one could hear.

  Suspicion filled Layne. There were very few who knew of her research, let alone would have information about it. With a curt nod, she walked past Bartholomew, seeing to it that the door to her office was left slightly ajar.

  “Now,” she said as she turned to face him. “What do you know of the orbs?”

  Bartholomew wandered about her office. His hands never left his side, yet his intense stare missed nothing.

  “You were very close to Dr. Findley?” he asked, staring at a picture of she and Lamar that hung on the wall above her piano.

  “Yes. Yes we were,” she answered.

  The man nodded. “I used to think he would eventually halt his search for the orbs. Then when he passed, I was sure the research died along with him.”

  Layne folded her arms across her chest, and leaned against the edge of her piano. “Mr...?”

  “Merely, Bartholomew.”

  “Bartholomew. You said you have some information regarding the Taliesin orbs?

  The man reached into his pocket, bringing out a scared-up leather pouch. “Do you have any manuscript paper?” he asked, dipping into the bag.

  “Yes.”

  “May I borrow some, please?”

  A small crease formed between her brows as Layne tried not to appear as