by Jeremy Craig
“What did I do?” I asked, fearing the answer. White Owl and Gramps shared an uneasy but bewildered look, and Gramps sighed in defeat and took a long gulp of coffee.
“We’re not sure. Not yet,” The Master answered finally as he chewed on a mouthful of sausage. “We have our suspicions, but we need to be sure.”
“Was it a “Darkling thing” or something?” White Owl almost choked on his overstuffed mouthful and Gramps slowly sat down his cup at this. Giving me the “stop asking so many blasted questions” look, but I wasn’t ready to surrender just yet.
“Will you tell me when you know?” I asked.
“We will tell you, when you’re ready,” Gramps snapped as he added about three heaping spoonful’s of sugar to his refilled mug and sipped at it all the while glaring at me in the hopes to end the line of questions so he could get back to enjoying breakfast.
“Was it the Clampetts that sent them?” I asked, causing Gramps to chuckle dryly and shake his head.
“No, those inbred fools can barely brew moonshine that won’t blind you, never mind manage summoning such powerful Infernum,” he assured as he started to tuck into his own plate.
“How do you know?” I asked with a full mouth of scrambled egg that earned me a bit of a hypocritical look of disapproval from White Owl, who had just almost choked on the two plump, drippy sausages he’d just stuffed into his own mouth.
“According to the records the Clampetts haven’t had anything over a Level Two Witch born to their clan in over three decades. Nothing lower than a Three could ever manage what attacked the lodge, the power to summon just one would be enough to kill them. It would be foolish to even try.”
To expand on this, every Fey babe is legally required to be registered at birth with the Council’s House of Lines. Which is pretty much the department of records for power and bloodlines with the Dark Fey, Were-beast, Vampires, and Vraad being the obvious exceptions to the rule (seriously, who is going to waltz into a Were-beast packs territory and try to take a power census?)
As to powers there are in fact six levels of power. Level one being fairly ordinary while the categories four through six were only ever recorded at the ordaining of Wizards. Which is mercifully quite rare. Anything above a four could be categorized only as extremely volatile, while a six could be catastrophic on a global scale.
These levels can however get complicated with the average Fey later in their long lives. As should one of them manage to absorb another of their peer’s powers, they can become far more formidable, unstable, and dangerous. Which thankfully up to this point had only happened once with Wizards in recorded history. With the first and last Dark Lord.
Amongst witches however, such power duels are fairly common. Although thankfully they can’t come close to a four. As should one absorb more power than they can handle one tends to literally (and rather messily) explode.
“They didn’t seem very smart to me,” I remarked a bit cheekily after picturing the trio of Clampetts I’d met. This earned another amused look from Gramps who was buttering some toast. “But what if they had help?”
Gramps choked on his first bite of toast and slowly lowered it back to the plate as he considered my question. A contemplative expression lined his face as he and White Owl shared an uneasy look that allowed me to slip Manx a few strips of bacon. The Witchound’s tail thumped happily on the floor as he munched at them at his post under the table by my feet.
Later that afternoon, after sword and knife training and some usual fall yardwork about the lodge (raking leaves, picking up branches, and helping lay new sod in the patches of scorched earth where the demons had fallen), I sat at the couch to read the chapter in the book Gramps had laid out.
I remember the very hippy-like half Elven Druids in their tie-dye shirts and sandals had just left in their flowery painted up Volkswagen Bus (that had definitely brought up unsettlingly bad emotions and memories seeing pull into the lodge’s drive, to say the least). Having helped seep the taint from the scorched soil the spider demons had left when I’d done whatever it was no one wanted to talk about to banish them.
I was tired, my whole body hurt, and I was looking forward to the soup fragrantly bubbling on the stove that promised to deliciously chase the last of the chill and aches from my body. All that went away when I saw the picture on the page.
It was terribly beautiful and more than heart wrenchingly familiar. Drawn with crisp flowing lines was the slender form in ornate robes and armor of an ichor splattered being so handsome and flawless it didn’t look quite real. With prismatic crystalline eyes, pointed ears, long white hair, and sharp looking teeth with a booted foot atop a mound of dead Orcs and Goblins and wielding a vicious looking rune engraved jewel studded golden spear stood a Vraad.
Even then I knew why Gramps had done it. He wanted me to understand what was inevitably coming, but it didn’t make it hurt any less to look upon the face of my family’s killer. Guilt and tears brimming up I read it anyway, and it made me feel far, far worse.
Turns out the Vraad are the Eldest of the Fey next only to the Dragons and Orcs. Father race of the Atlanteans and Elves. The Vraad were old and had watched empires rise and utopias fall for millennia well before the first man crawled from his caves, mud huts, and hovels to put stone atop stone to build their first meager cities.
However, despite my preconceptions, they were far from evil. They were in fact protectors of nature, warring constantly with the Orcs that swarmed up from the dark places to pillage and rape the lands and its peoples.
Eventually, they even reached out to teach ancient man as they saw their fear, plight, and squalor As they cowered in filth and were hunted by Orcs, Trolls, Ogres, Goblins, and worse. The Vraad took pity, seeing in this new, nearly helpless species a hint of promise and potential. So, they gifted them with fire, medicines, and knowledge to drive away the dark in the hopes they would rise up to be a new golden light to brighten the world. Unfortunately, and some would say predictably, it had the opposite effect.
Man, now a numerous race and made powerful with knowledge and magic became a darkness upon the land rivaling even the Orc. Burning, conquered and butchered with careless, gleeful abandon. And so, in horror at their short sightedness the great Vraad race withdrew, no one knew to where, and man was left to war with Elves and Orc endlessly until the land began to wither and die.
It was at the tipping point that the Vraad returned. All but obliterating humanity’s empire as it drove their creation back into the caves from where they once came with terrible magics and battles that all but reshaped the Earth. Leaving it scarred and changed. The war was called the First Fall. And with it, human civilization all but ended and the scorched land in its wake was left to heal, but at a cost.
The Vraad lost many, and their population never recovered. Again the Eldest race vanished from the Earth. Leaving it in the safekeeping and stewardship of the Atlanteans and Elves.
They only resurfaced when the first High Council was called to once again address the growing threat imposed by the now all but dominant race of man, whose fractured warring civilizations once more covered the land after bitterly clawing their way back from crushing and absolute defeat.
Not surprisingly the Vraad were against the Oldfable from the very beginning, and especially fiercely angry at its cost (Darklings). Arguing that this new genesis of Human would be a worse threat than all man’s kingdoms put together and vowed in blood to fight this spell and its creations to the bitter end. Even if it meant war with the other Fey who saw this as a necessity. And that they did. And there I sat, sadder and more conflicted than ever. I’m not sure that was what Gramps had intended.
Chapter Six
The gift and the ghostly Grandmother…
I was sitting outside on the porch a few days later, mind wandering and listening to the distant drilling of a woodpecker, when the girl from the diner unexpectedly wandered up to our gate in a low-cut polka dot dress, denim jacket, and knit hat holding a fa
ncy wicker basket.
She waved at me with a pink knitted gloved hand and put the basket on the ground, running off before I could even get up from my chair. At my feet Manx let out an uneasy growl as he sniffed the air. I ignored it as I was happy to see her again, and I was curious to see what was in the basket.
I know, I know… This sounds awfully fishy, right? Well, it was fishy, and I was too young to see it. I was a kid back then who’d just lost everything he’d known and had no friends his age. So, excuse me for wanting friends (especially such pretty ones). Seriously, try to cut kid me some slack, alright?
Gramps was just coming around the side of the barn workshop with a logger’s axe over his shoulder to start tackling the cords of firewood he’d had delivered (they were quite broad and heavy and needed to be chopped into more manageable pieces) when he noticed her running off.
He paused mid stride and squinted after the girl with a frown. Then his eyes slipped to Manx, who was now standing and watching her vanish into the woods, tail whipping about like mad and then to me who was halfway off the porch. He left the axe leaning against his chopping stone and wearily made for the gate after emphatically gesturing for me to stay put.
He came back with the basket, which was heavily laden with jars of preserves, honey, and baked treats, looking very unhappy. Wordlessly, he stomped into the house, Manx and I at his heels. White Owl arrived in his shiny blue truck about fifteen minutes after he’d gotten off the phone with Gramps.
I was happy to see him, as Gramps was not in a particularly good mood and had sat glaring at the basket in silence. Waving off conversation from the second he’d put the phone back on its receiver on the wall, he walked over to flop into his chair And instructed me to not even go near the “froofy looking” basket until he and White Owl had had a good look at it.
White Owl let himself in, offered me a nod, Manx a scratch, and walked right past Gramps to the kitchen table where he stared down at the basket. He ran his hand over the pink ribbon tied in a big bow about its middle, and read the tiny card attached to the handle by yet more pink ribbon that’s ends had been curled up all fancy like. Then riffled through its contents in his customary silence.
Finally, he shrugged, picked out a cookie, and took a bite as he walked over to the sofa dribbling crumbs on the floor that Manx rushed over to lap up. White Owl flopped down next to me and sank into the cushions with a contented sigh as he took another huge bite.
“That’s it? That’s all?” Gramps demanded tersely.
White Owl took another bite and continued chewing, meeting Gramps’ flustered stare and again shrugging. “Mmmm, marzipan,” he added obligingly as he popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth and sank back into the sofa with a sigh.
“No advice for the boy then?” Gramps prodded.
White Owl sighed and turned about to me. Meeting my eyes with a calm, serious, and solemn expression as he finished chewing. Placing his huge, many silver and turquoise ringed hand on my shoulder and offered this sage advice:
“Don’t let them go stale.”
Gramps threw up his hands in defeat. “Some bloody help you are,” he grumbled with an ear reddening curse as he struggled out of his chair. The day’s chores obviously aching at his back as he stomped over to the table, placed both palms on it, and stared at the basket. He fingered the note thoughtfully, rolling his eyes at the curly, flowery script.
“Can either of you tell me who this Miss M is, and why she’s bringing my grandson treats?” he finally asked in his customary grumble.
“Was it the girl from the diner?” White Owl inquired with a raised eyebrow.
I nodded. He nodded back and again he shrugged. “Who knows how young women’s minds work?” he asked of no one in particular as he petted the Witchound that had plopped its huge head into his lap, masterfully begging for more cookie.
“Which young woman precisely?” Gramps asked, his patience obviously near the danger point (as indicated by the vein throbbing on his forehead and rhythmic finger tapping on the tabletop) as he stared down at the basket. Wisely, I filled him in. He sighed at the story and shook his head at me bewilderedly.
“Could any of it be poisoned, potioned, or enchanted?” he finally asked in a sour tone that made it clear he half expected no answer at all out of his old friend who was at that precise moment indulging Manx with the last remaining nibble of his cookie.
White Owl, thick brows raised incredulously, ever so slowly turned to Gramps. “You think a little girl is trying to slip young Ben something?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but someone could have put her up to it, couldn’t they?” Gramps asked exasperatedly.
“Artur, just because more than one of your former wives has sent you laxative laced cookies over the centuries doesn’t mean every kind gesture by a girl is dangerous. It just means you were a crappy husband.” This was the first time I had ever heard Gramps’ first name, and the whole thing White Owl had eluded to just sounded so silly that I almost managed to contain my snickering.
Well, almost.
Gramps glared at us both, pulled the card from its colorful cord on the basket handle, glanced at it, then plucked up a sugar cookie and took a hesitant bite. Nodding begrudgingly as he chewed and made his way back to his chair.
“Not bad,” he admitted. “I suppose there’s at least one benefit to having a handsome young grandson about. All the girls will be sending us treats.”
“Not worried about poisons, then?” White Owl asked slyly as he watched Gramps take another bite as he settled back into his chair.
“Why do you think I let you eat one first?” Gramps asked sardonically as he gave his oldest friend a wicked smile and sly wink. Much to Gramps’ amusement the old Master’s eyes widened while he considered that new, slightly treacherous, and decidedly unpleasant line of thought. He busied himself with plucking a few crumbs from his flannel for Manx to lick from his hand instead of looking up at Gramps, who was having a good chuckle at his expense.
I remember the cookies were quite good. At the time I wondered how she had known how much I loved empire biscuits, and how she got them to taste even better than the ones my mom used to bake just before Christmas. If I recall rightly, I ate the whole dozen in a day, and I was thankful for every last bite.
Ever since then (though somehow, we all failed to make the connection) I had fitful nights, waking up and staring at the ceiling in a cold sweat. I never remembered any nightmares or anything like that or could ever put a finger on what it was that was waking me, but I always had an odd empty feeling like I had forgotten something terribly important when I woke.
They were all just fragments swimming about in a sleepy muddle that didn’t make sense and got more nonsensical and confusing the longer I was awake. Trying to remember and make sense of them was like trying to move sand with a fish net.
When I brought it up one morning over ham, home fried potatoes, and eggs, Gramps merely snorted and laughed. Welcoming me to the club as it were. Writing it all up to hormones and me adjusting to a new home and settling into my gift.
White Owl, who much to Manx’s delight had become a regular morning meal guest, hadn’t been so quick to brush it off. Instead insisting that dreams could be important and meaningful, and that such things as I’d described could mean that perhaps there was something important the universe was trying to tell me.
He even suggested I put a notebook and pen on the nightstand and, whenever I woke to jot down whatever I remembered—no matter how odd. Gramps seemed to find all this very funny but on his old friend’s insistence fetched the pen and notepad from his junk drawer nonetheless, if only to make us stop talking about it.
All that I ever got out of it (besides Gramps’ ribbing) when I read the notes I’d written the nights before over breakfast didn’t make much sense—the color yellow, secret bottles of hungry burning evil (which sound like nonsense), something about webs, and flashes of the girl from the Wayfarers who’d later brought me th
e gift basket. And before you think it, get your bloody mind out of the gutter, it was nothing like those kind of flashes.
Gramps found the whole thing very amusing, making me blush furiously as he proceeded to wink and congratulate me on my crush as he spread some of our new peach preserves on his slice of toast. Advising that I should enjoy the ability to get any dreams, especially nice ones with pretty girls in them while it lasted. He warned that our profession tended to rob our kind of those luxuries after a while.
White Owl was just as baffled but not quite as quick to dismiss things just yet, insisting to much eye rolling from Gramps that I keep up the dream journal and to keep both of them appraised.
Halloween came the next week. This holiday is different in Fey communities, and while they have started trick or treating more recently it’ll always be a time for family gatherings, feasting, bonfires, and remembering those that came before us. In short, what had once been my second favorite celebration of the year, full of good scares, mischief, candy, and fun had become bittersweet.
Sure, Gramps and I carved some jack-o’-lanterns that we lit and set about the porch and gate. Sure, we had tasty apple cider donuts (a seasonal made to order Wayfarers diner specialty much beloved by the Feyish community of the Adirondacks).
White Owl (much to Gramps’ annoyance), even told a scary story that he absolutely insisted was true as we chowed on pepperoni pizza from Sall’s and lounged by the fire. But it just wasn’t the same. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun and all, but it just felt a bit gloomy and discomfited.
The house even got egged and a few of the trees by the gate got hung and garlanded with an impressive amount of toilet paper (we were fairly sure by whom). It was a bit funny watching Gramps charge out the front door after the hysterically laughing hooligans when the first few eggs hit the window.
He came back cursing and wiping at the raw egg oozing down his face. Evidently, it had been an egg ambush. And quite a successful one too by the state of his flannel that he stomped off mutteringly to change. Still though, I couldn’t quite get into it. Everyone knew what was causing my melancholy and everyone tried to act like they didn’t notice.