by Logan Jacobs
“It looks like the ugly stepsister,” Sorcha commented as we walked past.
“Why are stepsisters always ugly in fairy tales?” I asked.
“Well, you wouldn’t want the prince to fall for one,” Sorcha pointed out with a laugh.
We debated the need for ugly stepsisters for the rest of the trek along Main Street until Lewiston Road appeared, marked with a lamp post and a street sign. It was lined by one and two-story homes that were just the right size for raising a small family, all freshly painted and well-maintained. There were toys in the yard, and sometimes a dog on a porch or a cat in a windowsill. I could smell a pie baking close by and hear children’s laughter from a backyard. It was an idyllic scene, and I wondered if the streets we had passed in the wasteland had once been as pleasant as this one was.
I saw a couple of curtains twitch as we walked up the road, and a stout bulldog left his porch to watch us pass by, but otherwise no one even noticed we were there. We passed the last house and kept going until the road divided at the foot of a small hill. The area we were in was definitely more wild, if not exactly a forest. It was obvious people came through here, though the more beaten path led toward the pond.
“Shall we see what Charles Darwin has to say?” I asked as we took the road to the right.
“I’m breathless with anticipation,” Sorcha snickered.
The road on the right petered out and soon it was just a pair of ruts running side by side along a grassy strip of land. I would have thought the trail had been given up for good if I hadn’t spotted a fresh cow patty by the road. Even with that proof of life, I wasn’t so sure that the clerk hadn’t sent us in the wrong direction, though I couldn’t think of a reason why he would have done so.
The path came to an abrupt end at a muddy bog filled with reeds and cattails. Frogs croaked from the edge of the water while a heron stalked the shadows for an easy meal. The ghostly branches of a dead oak still reached into the sky, surrounded by a phalanx of young pines.
And in the middle of all that sat an old shotgun cottage on stilts. Someone had painted it a bright green at some point, but most of the color was now gone, as was the glass in the windows and the front door. The old house leaned toward the left, perilously close to falling into the murky water that moved slowly past the rotting timbers that served as the supports.
“This can’t be right,” Sorcha murmured as she eyed the structure dubiously. “No one’s been inside that place in a long time.”
“But why would the clerk send us to the wrong place?” I asked as I slipped my hand into the pocket with the snub nose.
“Because we’re strangers in town,” Sorcha replied as she studied the area. “We should go back. Maybe someone else will tell us where he is. If not, I saw signs for a carriage stop. We’ll take the first one out of town and go as far west as we can.”
“I knew this was too easy,” I sighed.
We started to turn around when something smacked into the tree just to my right. It made a heavy thud and I knew what I would see before I even glanced over. Sure enough, an arrow quivered in the trunk, buried deep into the hardwood of the hickory. A long bow, not a crossbow bolt either, which meant the archer could be even further away.
I grabbed Sorcha and pulled her behind the tree even as I dug the snub nose from my jacket. At least with the arrow, I had a general idea of where it had been fired from, though the archer could be moving even as I peered into the thicket of pines and reeds.
“You’re not from Motown!” a woman’s voice shouted. “So who the hell are you and why are you here?”
Chapter 10
“At least she’s willing to talk first and shoot later,” Sorcha mumbled.
“She already shot one arrow,” I pointed out as I tried to pick out the owner of the voice.
“At the tree,” Sorcha remarked.
“You’re assuming she aimed for the tree,” I replied.
“Who the hell are you?” the voice demanded again.
“We’re looking for a man named Charles Darwin!” I yelled back. “The clerk at the general store said we could find him here, but if that’s not true, then we’ll just head back into town. Unless you know where he is?”
After a long minute of silence, I heard someone move in the rushes. I lifted the snub nose, ready to fire should a target present itself.
“What do you want with Charles Darwin?” the woman asked, and I could tell that she had edged closer to our own position, though I still couldn’t see her.
“A friend of his named Evan sent us,” I replied. “He said Charles Darwin would have information that we could use.”
“Evan?” the woman asked in disbelief.
“He lives on Brook Island,” I said hastily. “He runs a school, of sorts, there.”
I heard rustling from a spot just to the right of the shack and I peered around the edge of the tree. A woman emerged from the reeds and stopped in a weedy patch of dry ground. She was nearly as tall as I was, with sun-kissed skin and a long mane of black hair pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail and topped off with a floppy hat. She wore a long-sleeved shirt and baggy pants in the browns and greens of the surrounding woods, but I could still tell that she had a pair of very, very long legs.
“Can we come out?” I asked.
“Alright, come out and tell me who you are,” the woman replied. “I won’t shoot you.”
I peered around the tree once again and noticed that she had lowered the bow, though she still had an arrow cocked against the string. I slipped the snub nose back into my pocket, then stepped slowly around the tree. I heard Sorcha follow me as I took a few steps into the clearing, and then we both stopped and stared at the woman.
She was lovely, with huge brown eyes set in an oval face. Her nose was small and somewhat flat and sat over a pair of plump pink lips. She watched us carefully, and for just a moment, I thought I saw her nose twitch.
“How do you know Evan?” she asked after we’d all stared at each other for several heartbeats.
“We were on Brook Island,” I said carefully. “We met some of the children who took us to meet Evan. One of the girls… asked us to stay and help for a bit. When we left, Evan said we should find Charles Darwin in Motown.”
“And what is Charles Darwin supposed to do for you?” she asked.
“Ummm, I’d rather share that with him,” I replied.
We’d reached a stalemate, and we stared at each other for several more heartbeats.
“If Evan sent you, you must be mages,” the woman finally declared.
“We’re not with the Magesterium,” Sorcha assured her.
“Well, you wouldn’t be if Evan sent you,” the woman mused. “But how do I know you didn’t capture him and torture the information from him?”
“Do you really think the Magesterium would just send a pair of mages all this way, in secret, to try to talk to your… what? Father? Uncle?” Sorcha pressed.
“I have no idea what the Magesterium would do,” the young woman replied. “I just know he hates mages and everything to do with them… except Evan.”
“Because he and Evan were friends before the meteorite hit,” I suggested.
“I guess you do know Evan,” she conceded as she slowly released the tension on the bow and slipped the arrow back into the quiver on her back. “And he’s my grandfather. I can’t believe you think he’s my father. He’s like, ancient.”
“Oh, no, we didn’t mean to imply…” I stammered, “I mean, you’re clearly young enough to be his granddaughter… and you’re really beautiful…”
I saw a hint of pink on the woman’s cheeks for a moment, and then she looked down at the bow for a moment.
“Kind words to me won’t get you on his good side if you really are mages,” the woman declared when she looked at us again.
“So he really does live here?” I asked as I glanced at the dilapidated shack one more time.
“Not in that,” the woman replied as she waved at
the crumbling structure.
“Evan said he and his family had moved into a place underground when the meteorite first struck,” Sorcha blurted out. “Charles stayed on even after his wife and children moved back to the surface.”
“That’s gramps for you,” the young woman said with a nod.
“So, what’s your name?” I asked.
She considered us for a moment, then glanced at the arrow in the hickory tree. She walked past us and pulled the arrow from the trunk, then added it to the quiver as well. After all that, she gave a shrug and turned to face us again.
“Well, gramps says it isn’t safe to share my name with strangers, but I sort of hate that rule,” she sniffed. “Besides, you’re here on old man business, so you must be alright.”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“I’m Freya,” she finally declared.
“I’m Hex,” I replied. “And this is Sorcha.”
“Wow, not a normal name among us,” Freya chortled.
“Sorcha’s common in the old country,” Sorcha sniffed.
“Not that common, I’d wager,” Freya replied, though she did so with a smile.
“Maybe not as common as some,” Sorcha admitted.
“So where is your grandfather?” I pressed. “We were hoping to meet him today and then leave quickly.”
“He’s fishing,” Freya said with a shrug. “But he should be back soon. I can show you to the house if you’d like to wait.”
“If you’re sure it’s alright,” I replied, though what I really wanted to know was whether he would, in fact, be back anytime soon.
“He won’t be any happier if I just leave you sitting out here,” Freya remarked, “so you might as well have something to drink and have some fun poking around in all his collections.”
Freya turned and stalked off with that statement, and Sorcha and I quickly fell into step behind her. We walked past a crumbling wooden fence covered in blackberry and raspberry vines, and down an old deer trail to a clearing. At first glance, it looked like an empty space among the trees, but beneath the pine needles and brown leaves was a flat piece of concrete, about ten feet by ten feet, with a pair of flat metal panels in the center.
Freya leaned down and slipped a hand beneath a cleverly concealed lever, and one of the panels slowly swung open. The dark haired woman smirked when she caught our surprised looks and then stepped into the hole that had appeared.
Sorcha and I stepped forward and peered into the opening. Metal stairs led down toward a concrete floor where Freya stopped and waited for us. There was a lamp at the bottom that made a strange buzzing noise, and strangely, the scent of pine and gardenia. I could see more lamplight behind Freya, but that was it.
“Great place to take someone if you wanted to kill them in secret,” I noted quietly.
“You can stay outside if you want,” Freya offered, “but gramps will probably shoot to kill first.”
“I guess we’re going down,” Sorcha replied as she started down the steps.
I took one last look at the pleasant little spot far from the town, then started down the stairs. The steps seemed too light to hold our weight, but they remained firm beneath our feet despite the clattering noise our boots made as we stepped down. When we reached the bottom, Freya gave us another smile, then pressed a small button near the lamp. The door above us slowly swung closed, though the clang I expected when the metal clamped shut never happened. There was just a brief squeak and then the sunlight was gone. Freya hung her bow and quiver on a hook, then started down the hall.
“We’ve got cold water and some of gramps’ special vegetable drink,” Freya announced as she led us deeper into her home. “Used the last of the milk this morning or I’d offer you a glass.”
“Water would be fine,” Sorcha noted.
We were in a narrow hallway with rooms on either side. The only light was from another pair of buzzing lamps on hooks, so it was hard to see what was inside the rooms, but I could pick out the shapes of large boxes stacked neatly around the walls, and smaller boxes on shelves near the back. My palm started to itch as I glanced in one of the rooms, and I realized that Darwin’s gun stash must be nearby.
“So, grab a seat,” Freya declared, and I realized that she and Sorcha had walked on ahead.
I had stopped outside the room where I was certain the guns were, and I was tempted to slip inside and find them for myself. I glanced down the hallway, but I could still see Sorcha and Freya, and they both turned to give me a quizzical look. I glanced at the storage room again, then joined the women in the main room.
The main room was large enough to hold a stove, an oven, cabinets, a table and chairs, and a sink on one side, and a large sofa, a pair of overstuffed chairs, and a collection of books on the other side. There was another hallway on the far side of the room and I could pick out two more doors along that hall, though there may have been more that I couldn’t see from my angle.
The room we were in was well-lit, though total darkness lurked around the edges. Despite the welcoming scents and the obvious signs of a home, there was something tomb-like about the place and a dampness in the air that the heat from the stove couldn’t quite eliminate.
Freya pointed to the round table, and Sorcha and I both sat down. Freya opened a cabinet and pulled out three glasses, then opened a small metal box next to the sink. She pulled out a pitcher of water and filled each glass, then returned the pitcher to the box. She carried the three glasses to the table and set them down before taking a seat herself.
“So Charles Darwin is your grandfather?” Sorcha asked after she had gulped down some of the water.
“Yep,” Freya replied. “Actually, he built most of this place.”
“Wow,” I commented as I peered around the space. “I didn’t know people in the pre-magic world sometimes lived underground.”
Freya considered that for a moment while she sipped her water, then shrugged.
“There used to be a nice house on the land,” she sighed. “But gramps was always the cautious type, I suppose. He built this thing in case they were ever attacked or some big natural disaster destroyed everything else. Sadly, he turned out to be right, at least as far as the natural disaster part goes. He and grandma and their sons all moved in here the day the meteorite struck.”
“Evan mentioned that,” I said.
“They were here for ages,” Freya laughed, “or at least, that’s what my dad always claims. Grandma says it wasn’t that long, but once it was clear that there were still a lot of people in the world and that they needed everyone to chip in and find a way to save humanity, well, she decided she needed to do her part. She left, and the boys all went with her. Dad admits that he and his brothers were probably all bored with living in the shelter rather than feeling altruistic, but it got them all out of this place.”
“Is it just you and your grandfather here now?” Sorcha asked.
“It is,” Freya admitted. “Sometimes mom and dad or one of my uncles comes by, and my cousins like to visit every once in a while, but we’re the only ones who live here all the time.”
“Why are you here?” I asked. “It doesn’t seem like a very exciting life for someone like you.”
Freya cocked her head to one side and watched me for a moment. Her nose twitched again, and I thought she might sneeze, but she finally shrugged and stood up. She finished her glass of water in one long swig, then took it to the sink.
“I like it here,” she finally said as she returned to the table. “I don’t enjoy loud parties hosted by airheaded boys and girls, and I don’t like spending hours on end sitting in the parlor doing needlepoint.”
“Does anyone?” Sorcha laughed awkwardly when the silence dragged on.
Freya looked down the hallway to the stairs then and stood up slowly. I saw her draw a deep breath as if to steady herself, and then she moved past us and went to stand in the door to the main room. I realized she had effectively blocked us from the view of anyone walking down the hall
way and exchanged a worried glance with Sorcha.
The sound of heavy boots clattering down the steps filled the air, and then I heard the slight squeak of the door as it closed. The clean, slightly sweet scent of fresh fish wafted down the hallway and mingled with the pine.
“I’d thought you’d be outside,” a gravelly man’s voice declared. “And you forgot to oil that hinge.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Freya sighed. “But I have something more important to tell you.”
“What’s that?” the voice asked in a friendly tone as it drew closer. “Did we get a letter today?”
“Not a letter, no,” she replied.
By now, the man with the gravelly voice had reached the doorjamb, and I could just see him around Freya’s lithe frame. She still tried to position herself so he couldn’t see us, but he knew his granddaughter well enough to know she was trying to hide something. He gently turned her aside and looked into the room.
Charles Darwin was in his seventies to judge by the wrinkles on his face, but he was still fitter than many men I knew. He looked like he could still unload bales, chop a month’s supply of wood, then sit in the saddle for the rest of the day. Like his granddaughter, he was tanned from the sun, except for the area around his eyes, which made him look like a reverse raccoon. His hair was gray and barely more than stubble on his head, and his ears stuck out from the side of his head like a couple of saucers.
“Who the hell are you?” Darwin demanded.
“Evan sent them,” Freya explained before Sorcha or I could respond.
Darwin pondered that for a moment, then finally stepped into the kitchen area. He handed a gutted fish to Freya as he did so, and she accepted the fish with both hands. Darwin stopped next to the table and stared at us while his granddaughter salted the fish, wrapped it in wax paper, and placed it in the metal box.
“How is Evan?” Darwin finally asked, though his tone was less than friendly.
“He’s alive,” Sorcha said after a moment. “The school is doing well.”