Got Hope

by Michael Darling

  “And when I got hit in the head with that rock and only got a little bump?”

  Yeah. That too.

  “But then when you hit Oz, it hurt. When you had this coin, you were protected. Without the coin, you weren’t. It was because the four-leaf clover inside holds magical power and protects whoever is wearing it. I recharged it and I want you to keep it again. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Remember to stay inside, away from the windows.”

  “I know,” Hope replied.

  “You’ll be safe here. Right? What did I say?”

  Hope recited, looking up at the ceiling. “Your house is a fortress of solitude, like Superman’s, only not in the arctic.”

  “Good. Now, while we’re gone, you’ll need to finish your research to decide if you’re Lois Lane or Wonder Woman. Those are the two women most likely to be found in the fortress of solitude. Lana Lang is also an acceptable choice, if you want to go for extra credit but it will be harder to complete a five-hundred-word essay defending your decision. Your assignment will be thirty-percent of your grade.”

  Hope had her hands in her back pockets and she twisted her torso from side to side, smirking. “I’ll get right on that,” she said.

  “Max left plenty of food for you in the refrigerator. For now, stay off your social media.”

  “Okay,” Hope replied.

  “To be honest, we might be back in a few minutes. Time passes differently in the Behindbeyond but I don’t know what my father will ask me to do.”

  Hope shrugged.

  I looked at Erin and pointed at Hope. “One of Hope’s most recognizable features is her hair. Both of you let it down, okay?”

  Erin and Hope undid their hair and let it tumble over their shoulders. They teased it out with their fingers and it looked like they both had hair about the same length.

  “Should work, right?” I looked at Oz.

  “Yup,” he said. His eyes were focused and his fingers already moving. Sleeping had restored our magical power to full.

  “Let’s do this,” I said.

  Oz started his spell as blue shimmers illuminated his hands. It took him all of three seconds to transform Erin’s face and hair to match Hope.

  “That was fast,” I said.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice with her face.” Oz’s voice held an edge of regret.

  “You can talk while the spell is going?” I asked.

  “The spell has momentum. Once it’s started, it just needs a nudge now and then.”

  I remembered the fire vortex I’d created to burn the bugs. It had worked much the same.

  Erin regarded her new face in the mirror, turning her head a little to get the full effect.

  “Wow, Hope. You’re beautiful,” she said. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a blonde.”

  Hope smiled. “No, Erin. You were prettier ten seconds ago. I do like being taller, though.”

  The girls gave each other a hug.

  “Oz, Dude. You are one handsome hombre,” I said.

  “Uh,” Oz replied.

  “Yeah. I just wanted to get in on the love. Have I made everyone uncomfortable yet? I can keep going, making it more awkward. It’s what I do.”

  Erin smiled. Hope said, “We’re feeling sufficiently awkward, thanks.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Max and Sandretta had watched the proceedings from the doorway. Patient.

  I knelt at the edge of the ring in the floor. The pattern that would take us to the spot just outside my father’s castle was already in place.

  I brought my power up and touched the ring. “Oscailte.”

  The portal flared open.

  I looked at Hope. “A few seconds after we go through, the portal will be inaccessible from this side. Pick up the pattern so it will close on the other side, too. Just to be safe, all right?”

  Hope shrugged again. “Whatever you say.”

  The Behindbeyond waited, a thin pink line across the horizon, floating underneath the scattered stars. Dawn approached.

  I tilted through the portal and stepped ahead. Everything was quiet except for a soft breeze, trailing murmurs through the trees. Erin stepped up beside me and I felt Oz and Max and Sandretta at my back.

  “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” I said. I looked over my shoulder to see Hope on the other side of the portal. As she bent over to watch us, her hair fell forward off her shoulders almost as if reaching out, asking us not to go without her. I waved goodbye and she half-heartedly waved back.

  Please stay safe.

  The portal winked out.

  Our party of five walked in the nascent morning toward the castle. The air was fragrant from the cherry tree blossoms that magically bloomed all the time in a nearby glade. Feathery streams of warmth drifted past us, making the temperature noticeably rise and fall.

  I took sideways glances at Erin. Seeing her as Hope felt so strange. I was accustomed to there being plenty of air space over Hope’s head. Now, since it was really Erin, I could almost look in her eyes and I had to remind myself to keep my face poker-style.

  “Hey, Oz,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you have a different name in this realm? I don’t.”

  “No.”

  “Huh. In this realm, Erin’s name is Fáidh.”

  “Okay.”

  “But since she has Hope’s face we should call her Hope. However, she’s not the real Hope; she’s a faux Hope. So in my head, I’m calling her Fauxpe.”

  Oz blinked a lot for a few seconds.

  “We’ll just stick to Hope,” said Fauxpe.

  “Can’t tell me what to think.” I grinned.

  We tromped up the drawbridge, boots and shoes thudding on the heavy beams, guards shifting their halberds to the side as we passed. We made our way across the stones paving the large bailey, where Sir Siorradh and Wince waited for us.

  “Ah! Right on time,” Wince said.

  “Well met, Bromach,” I replied, remembering Wince’s actual surname.

  I gave a quick bow to Siorradh. “Dude,” I said.

  He returned a modest nod. “Dude.”

  “This is my friend, Hope.” I hoped my lie would go unnoticed as I indicated Fauxpe with my hand and waved vaguely over my shoulder. “You know my servants from the mortal realm.” I said the last part is if I fully expected everyone to know who all my servants were. That way, I didn’t have to introduce them by name—revealing Oz—and it would be a social misstep now for anyone to ask.

  “Very good,” Wince replied. “This way, um, everyone.”

  Wince took the lead and we fell in line with Siorradh bringing up the rear. We entered the castle and headed toward a set of stone steps.

  Over my shoulder, I saw Fauxpe looking at the tapestries and the ornate sconces on the walls like she’d never been in a castle before.

  Nice improvisation, Fauxpe.

  “Will Hope be going with ye?” Wince asked.

  “Going with us? Going where?” I replied.

  Wince threw a look of panic in my direction. “Oh. Oh, dear. The king hasn’t given thee any orders yet. Um. All right then. My mistake. We shall keep that bit to ourselves. Shall we? I’m sure the king will speak with thee presently.”

  “Not to worry, Bromach.” I almost patted him on the head. “Secret’s safe again. But if my father has a trip planned for us, I imagine Hope will just stay in my rooms until we return. Will that suit you, Hope?”

  “Perfectly,” Fauxpe replied.

  “All right. Very well.” Wince put his hand to his mouth. Perhaps to zip his lips and prevent further embarrassment.

  We continued wordlessly until we arrived at my chambers. My father waited inside.

  “Walk with me,” he said.

  I nodded “later” to my entourage and followed my father back into the hall.

  We turned down different stairs than the ones I’d come up. Everywhere my father stepped, clove
r sprang to life, leaving leafy green footprints on the stones. As we continued, the clover turned brown and died within moments. If we got separated, I’d just follow the decaying weeds. We passed guards on every floor and they each took a knee as he approached. The Alder King was even shorter than Hope, so some of the taller guards had to bow their heads even when kneeling, their chins touching their chests, so they wouldn’t be taller than the king as he went by.

  Finally, we turned another corner and found ourselves in a spacious chamber with a low ceiling. Copper pots in various sizes hung from hooks and a cooking fire waited on a bed of slate. The king closed the door behind us. He opened a cupboard set into the thick stone walls and pulled out some meats and cheese and butter and eggs that he placed on a table.

  My father spoke as he sorted his supplies. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “No, sire.”

  “Good. We’ll have a chance to talk.” He turned to look me full-on and I caught a conspiratorial shadow in his expression along with the weight of his glamour, which never failed to inspire loyalty and devotion in my heart. “The cooks tolerate my having a room off the main kitchens for my own. I like making food, trying things, but if anyone asks you about the quality of my cooking, you have my permission to tell them it is sadly poor. No egos bruised that way.”

  “All right,” I smiled. I noticed that my father addressed me without using the “thee-and-thou” second-person pronouns and accompanying verbs.

  An effective ruler considers the feelings of others and puts them at ease.

  He found a flat pan with low sides that depended from four chains and slipped the ring that held the chains together over the hook of the crane. This held the pan with the flat bottom parallel to the floor. Then he swung the crane to center the pan over the medium-sized fire. He’d said we could talk but he didn’t say anything as he watched the pan. I had a hundred questions in my head but asked none of them. If he felt discomfort at the silence, it wasn’t noticeable.

  Taking a spoonful of butter, he tested the heat of the pan. The butter sizzled immediately, and he dropped in a big scoop. Then he picked up some sausages and efficiently split them open with a knife from the rack on the wall and laid the sausages out on the melting butter. My mouth started watering and I practically had to gulp down saliva.

  After a couple of minutes, he turned the sausages over and cracked some eggs into the middle of the pan. He stirred them together with an implement that looked like a spatula but it had three sides too, making it a large flat-bottomed spoon of sorts. From a nearby basket, he gathered four freshly-baked rolls and cut them in half, putting them around the sausages and eggs to toast. The rich smell of yeast added its aroma to the sausage and eggs.

  He brought two platters from another cupboard and sliced some cheese before assembling the food. He put pieces of bread down first, then added sausage, eggs, and cheese and then bread on top.

  Holy crap. My dad invented the McMuffin.

  I nodded as he handed a platter to me, accustomed by now to never saying, “Thanks” out loud. My father had taught me that. I took a bite. The incredibly fresh ingredients blended perfectly and a little juice ran down my chin. A short stack of linen napkins sat nearby and I grabbed one to wipe off the juice.

  Nope. This isn’t a McMuffin. It’s a million times better.

  I must have made a sound of approval because the king chuckled. “In other circumstances, we would have spent time together while you were growing up. We should have been eating hot dogs and watching the Marlins play baseball.”

  “You know a lot about the mortal realm,” I said between bites.

  My father nodded. “Your mother was a remarkable woman. There are many things wrong with the mortal realm, but she educated me on its charms. I’ve tried to remain current.”

  “Really?”

  “Indeed. I understand fathers and sons in America enjoy the game called baseball.”

  I tried to picture the Alder King with a first baseman’s mitt and a baseball cap instead of a crown. The image didn’t jibe.

  We finished eating and my father took my empty platter. A third cupboard had a block of ice in it and a pewter pitcher. He poured an amber liquid from the pitcher into a couple of pewter mugs and handed one to me.

  I took a sip. Apple cider. Crisp, delicious, refreshing. It was shocking how cold the pewter felt.

  “Follow me,” dad said.

  I followed.

  The next leg of our castle crawl went up a narrow circular staircase.

  “Stairs always ascend in a clockwise direction,” my father said. “Do you know why?”

  “If the castle is attacked and the residents are trapped, they can retreat to the upper floors,” I replied. “The defenders then have the high ground and on a stair like this they can fight right-handed. The attackers are forced to use their weaker left hands to fight in a choke point, making the upper floors easier to defend.”

  “I’m impressed,” my father replied.

  Since discovering my dad lived in a castle, I’d done a lot of research.

  At the top of the stairs, we entered a chamber with a long table and tall fireplace. On the far side, there was a candy-apple red, mint-condition Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

  Like a hog-lovin’ moth, I went to the flame. I walked around the red-and-silver dream machine admiring her every line from stem to stern. “Is this a Shovelhead Electra Glide?”

  “It is. 1968,” the king replied. “It doesn’t run here.” He waved his hand in the air. “The magical power that is ever-present in our realm affects technology. Simple machines, like ropes and pulleys, operated by muscle and sweat, are the technologies we can use. We can’t ride the motorcycle, but we can admire her beauty.”

  My turn to say, “I’m impressed.”

  My father’s expression was unreadable, looking at the motorcycle but not seeing it. “It was a gift from a friend.” I didn’t know what to say, but my father continued after a moment’s hesitation. “The woman with you is not who you say she is.”

  There was no use denying it. “How did you know?”

  He pointed at a spot high on the wall, where it met the ceiling. There were various small carvings around the borders of the room. The one he pointed at was a face with over-large ears and a stupid expression. Next, he pointed at a carving over the door, which was a flower with four petals.

  “The fool and the rose,” he said. “The fool in the room means you can say anything with impunity. The rose indicates conversations are kept secret when we leave. I’ve conducted many discussions in this room over the centuries. These rules are sacrosanct and enforced by magic.”

  “Understood.”

  “This will help answer your question.” In the center of the table sat a box. My father opened it and removed a heavy rectangular package, wrapped in a thick, soft cloth. He unwrapped the package to reveal a book. He pushed the book toward me and turned a few pages, which were decorated with designs.

  Sketches of Stains.

  The sketches were extremely detailed with handwritten descriptions of their characteristics and what they meant. Many of the sketches were in color.

  “You see these patterns on people, don’t you?” he asked.

  I blinked. Nodded. “They surround everyone here, floating around them, over their hearts.”

  “They are called ornáidíocht. They are our legacy. Our secret. And our curse.”

  My father sees Stains too.

  He pointed at the book. “I’ve learned to read them, watching people, as my father did before me. The patterns give me insight to help me rule. The other day you saw the ornáidíocht surrounding that woman, Nathair. You saw what she was becoming. How she had corrupted herself. She was beyond redemption, having fallen prey to her most base and evil desires. It was only a matter of time before she would have been consumed by the deamhan inside her.”

  “Is that why you asked me what I thought?” I asked. “You could see her patterns disintegrating into her
skin. You wanted to know if I could see her turning into a deamhan too.”

  “It was my hope that you had seen their like before when you battled the deamhanlord Brón. Well done, by the way, I am glad you were victorious.”

  “I’m glad as well.”

  “Since you had seen the skin of Brón, I wanted to see if you could ascertain what Nathair was as well. I wanted to know if you had the ability to see the truth of her becoming.”

  “I’ve always seen them,” I replied. “Ever since I could remember. I call them Stains because the patterns I saw as a kid were usually ugly. They looked wrong, like an infection. Some of them are beautiful, though. I see more of the beautiful ones in this realm.”

  My father’s gaze drifted down to my chest and he reached out to me, as if he could feel my Stains. “You have been touched by the traitor, Caimiléir.” he said. It was true. I had a black and purple Stain that crisscrossed my white one. “That’s regrettable. But admirable as well. Many have fallen under his magic.”

  I didn’t know what to say. More than anything, I felt I’d been lucky. But I didn’t like the ugly stain I carried now.

  He turned more pages. “Look,” he said.

  I recognized the Stain, like a band of leaves near a flowing river. It belonged to Erin. “That’s Fáidh’s.” I used the name she was known by in this realm.

  “It is. She was a slip of a girl when I first met her. I remembered her ornáidíocht and put it into this book that same day. See the edges here, like fern leaves? And the flowing figure eight? I had a feeling she might be important one day.”

  “She’s important to me.”

  “She’s also in your chambers, wearing the face of a different woman.”

  Aha.

  Chapter Nineteen: Book of Stains

  I was starting to understand how useful seeing Stains could be.

  “Fáidh’s helping me with a problem,” I said. “She’s been made to look like a woman who’s having trouble with her husband.”

  A lot of trouble.

  “I hope you are not placing your helpmeet in danger,” my father replied.

  “Helpmeet” was my father’s word for “wife” as was his privilege, since he’d been the one who’d married us while using it.