Taylor Davis and the Flame of Findul

by Michelle Isenhoff

  “That’s the spirit,” Elena scorned. “Some dynamic leader you turned out to be.”

  “I didn’t ask for this, Elena,” I snapped. “We’re risking our lives. If there’s no point to it, I want to know now so I can hop the next plane back to Jersey.”

  “So if you can’t win, you just give up?”

  I glared at her. “Would you get in a ring with Dwayne Johnson?”

  Her eyes flashed dangerously. “If the fate of the world was in the balance, I’d certainly go down swinging.”

  Ranofur took up a position near the open window with the kitten tucked against his chest. “Your fighting spirit is admirable, Elena,” he said, “but Taylor’s right. If all we had was a fool’s hope, I’d go home, too. Fortunately, our side holds a far greater advantage.”

  I perked up, desperate for some good news. “What’s that?”

  “We have the Source of the Lifeforce on our side.”

  “Well, what is he waiting for?” I asked impatiently. “Why bother with all this? Why not just blast them and be done with it?”

  “That’s a question far more complicated than you realize. Sometimes it is necessary to wield great force. Other times, mercy and restraint are the more powerful weapons.” Ranofur shrugged. “I can’t see all ends.”

  “But if it’s all under control, why do we have to be involved?”

  “You don’t,” Ranofur replied shortly. “You’ve been given the opportunity to be involved, a chance to be part of something bigger than yourself.”

  “That’s just the way of things for now. We have a job to do, and so do you,” Mike added. “Ah! I’m in.”

  His eyes skimmed the new screen. “I think I may be on to something.” Fingers danced over the keys as he continued talking. “Based on Swain’s prior occupation as a pirate and his choice of a nautical mascot, I assumed his business was marine-oriented. I accessed some, ahem, mostly public historical records and—bingo!”

  He looked up with a smug expression. “Morgen’s of London was a shipping company that operated in the port of London from the late 1600’s until—” His fingers tapped again. “—1810.”

  “So, Swain turned respectable after all?” I asked in confusion.

  “Doubtful,” Mike replied. “I’d wager the company served as a front for his more colorful activities.”

  “Can you access any old company records?” Ranofur asked.

  “Probably not. Human records from that time period rarely survive intact. You may find caches like the church basement, but they seldom make it to the internet. I, however, have access to a much more complete record of history.”

  It took a minute for his words to sink in. “You mean you can access Heaven’s databank?” I asked.

  “Not with this laptop. The interface is incompatible. But I have friends in high places. I’ll put in a request ticket.”

  He typed out a few lines of text and hit the enter key with a flourish. “Done! Now I have a hunch about what might have caused Swain to disappear in 1693.”

  Three faces turned to him expectantly. He took out his hankie with a flourish, relishing the drama. “Pardon me.” We had to wait while he blew his nose and fished the nasal spray out of his pocket. Midway through the first squirt, he spotted the kitten in Ranofur’s hands. “Get that thing out of here,” he exploded. “How do you expect me to breathe tonight? Blamed cats everywhere.”

  Ranofur grinned and continued stroking the animal.

  Mike threw him a dark look and finished administering the spray. With a final sniff and a wipe, he pocketed the bottle. “Just for that, you can wait until tomorrow to hear my hunch.”

  Our combined protests did little good. He closed his laptop with a click as final as the last note of a symphony. “Shall we see what’s on the dinner menu?”

  My apprehensions were well-founded. Myrtle never did identify her local cuisine, but I suspect the main ingredients may have included canned cat food. I passed the night with a rolling stomach and awoke the next morning feeling less than refreshed. It didn’t help that I had to kick a particularly fat tabby off my pillow twice.

  The next morning, I pulled on the same jeans and T-shirt I’d worn since Davy’s sinkhole. That didn’t bother me nearly as much as the sight of Mike in his cowboy duds first thing in the morning. “Do we get to hear your hunch today?” I asked with a yawn, helping myself to the last of Ranofur’s tarts.

  “In time,” he answered evasively.

  Elena turned sweetly to Myrtle, who was pouring tea into Mike’s cup. “You wouldn’t happen to have any pickles, would you?”

  Myrtle acted as if dill and oatmeal was a natural combination. “I certainly do, dearie. Just a moment.” She disappeared and Elena turned on Mike. “We aren’t walking out of here this morning, are we?”

  Ranofur answered for him. “All eight miles of it. Unless you’d welcome a team of Swaugs to speed us on our way.”

  Elena winced.

  “The offer to swap shoes and bags still stands,” I volunteered. “Why do you wear those boots if they hurt your feet so much?”

  “They don’t hurt my feet normally,” she retorted. “But they weren’t designed to be used as hiking boots.”

  “They seem pretty worthless to me.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s never ridden a horse in his life.”

  “I rode a pony once.”

  She snorted. “In a circle? At a picnic?”

  I clamped my teeth closed. She was pretty close.

  Mike attempted a peacemaking diversion. “Western boots happen to be well-suited to their task.”

  “How do you know?” I accused. “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “Actually, I used to work with them.”

  “Let me guess,” I smirked, looking him up and down. “You were a rodeo clown.”

  “I was a stable boy,” he emphasized.

  Elena snapped her fingers. “Of course! The rider on the white horse? The four horsemen of the apocalypse?”

  Mike nodded. “It was a part-time gig when I was putting myself through agent training.”

  Myrtle came back carrying a bowl brimming with pickles. Elena tested one. “Perfect,” she proclaimed, smacking her lips and biting into a second one.

  “Bless you, child!” Myrtle chuckled, as delighted as a schoolgirl. “I can my own cucumbers.”

  The smell was making me nauseous. Or maybe it was too many tarts.

  Mike rose from the table. “Can we get those to go, Myrtle? We need to get underway.”

  “Of course, dearie. You go pack your things and I’ll meet you out at the vehicle.”

  “Vehicle?” Elena piped up hopefully.

  Mike winked. “I made some arrangements.”

  As we had nothing to pack, the mystery was solved very shortly. We met Mike and Myrtle in a narrow lane behind the inn. Myrtle cuddled a large orange tomcat who looked embarrassed to be seen in a green sweater, while Mike strutted back and forth before a tiny, three-wheeled car. It was bright blue with the words Auntie Myrtle’s Hand-Crocheted Cat Vests airbrushed on the side. “Well, what do you think?” he crowed.

  “That’s our new ride?” I gawked. It looked like a soda can riding a scooter. Ranofur could crush it in one hand.

  Elena’s eyebrows nearly collided with her hairline. “What’s your plan for getting us all inside?”

  “It’s really quite roomy,” Mike answered, opening one of the back doors. The familiar smell of cat wafted out. “Try it.”

  “I think I’d rather walk, thanks,” she remarked.

  Myrtle stepped up. “My son purchased this vehicle for me, bless him. It’s never given me a lick of trouble. But after a minor incident in Weymouth last year, the state made me retake my driver’s test.” She shook her head sadly. “Father Acker has been escorting me on my errands.”

  “Can we buy his car?” Elena mumbled.

  I could see it was a lost cause. Mike was sneezing like a steam-powered locomotive, but his excitement rivaled
that of any sixteen-year-old with the keys to his daddy’s sports car. Exhaling, I took the plunge, squeezing my legs into the narrow space with my backpack on my lap. Lace doilies and cat hair covered the interior. I forced a smile. “It’s great, Mike.”

  “Isn’t it?” he beamed. “Load up, you two. We have a lot of miles to cover.”

  With a huffy breath, Elena flopped into the seat beside me, landing with a shrill squeal. Fishing around on the seat beneath her, she pulled out a squeaky mouse by the tail. “Are the accessories complimentary?”

  Ranofur eased himself into the front seat without expression, his head tilted at an angle as it didn’t quite clear the ceiling. On one side his shoulders rubbed the door, on the other they brushed Mike’s seat. I gasped with pain as he adjusted his seat into my knees.

  “I feel like a cat in a carrier on its way to the vet,” Elena grumbled.

  “All set?” Mike rubbed his hands together in glee, his hat squashed low. “Then we’re off!” Another sneeze and a final wave to Myrtle, and we lurched out into the lane.

  Lesson #11

  And I Thought Archives Were Boring

  After only one hour, my body had stiffened so much I feared the onset of rigor mortis. Ranofur had long ago hunkered down in his seat with a cooking magazine that fluttered in the breeze from Mike’s open window, but that put his knees into the dash. Still, we would have been okay if Mike didn’t continually dodge across traffic lanes as if he were playing laser tag. I suspected this was his first time behind the wheel.

  “Can you roll that window up?” Elena shouted. “It’s forty-six degrees outside.”

  “I can’t. I’ll start sneezing again and crash the car.”

  A very real possibility, I thought as we darted between two eighteen-wheelers. But crammed in as we were, we’d probably bounce.

  “I’ll drive,” I volunteered.

  “You’re only thirteen.”

  “You didn’t complain when the Churkon was chasing us.”

  “I’m freezing,” Elena complained.

  “I’ll pull into a coffee shop.”

  “I hate coffee.”

  “Then get a latte!” Mike snapped and gave the wheel a sudden jerk.

  I caught myself against the back of Ranofur’s seat. “You do realize the lines on the road are to stay between, not play leapfrog with, don’t you?” I asked.

  He pulled into a drive-through coffee shop and soon handed back a raspberry hot chocolate with extra whipped cream sprinkled with cinnamon. Elena had to fish a handful of cat food out of the drink holder before she could set it down. Then Mike zipped back into traffic.

  “When are you going to tell us where we’re going?” I asked.

  “When I decide to tell you my hunch.”

  “And that would be—?”

  He grinned into the rear-view mirror. “All right. I’ll cave.”

  Elena and I waited expectantly. Even Ranofur looked up.

  “We know Swain was a notorious pirate, correct?” Mike began.

  We all agreed.

  “We also know he gave large sums of money to a church, so he must have become quite wealthy. A man like Swain would only give out of extreme abundance.”

  “That makes sense,” Elena conceded.

  “So, I think it’s doubtful he gave up piracy, even after starting his shipping business. He loved it too much.” Mike paused to let our minds leap to the next logical deduction, but we were stuck like tattoos on a biker’s bicep. “And?” I finally prompted.

  “And,” he repeated, “what happened to most notorious pirates of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries? I mean the ones that didn’t die at the end of a sword or sink to the bottom of the sea.”

  Elena and I continued our glassy stare. He explained patiently, “If apprehended, perpetrators of crimes at sea were taken to Marshalsea Prison and tried in the Admiralty courts. If found guilty, they were paraded over London Bridge to Execution Dock in Wapping and hung.”

  Ranofur nodded. “I remember. Executions were a city-wide holiday. Thousands would turn out to watch a man die.”

  “Sounds like a jolly place,” I said, tugging at my collar.

  “If our boy disappeared from history, most likely he made his end there,” Mike finished.

  “You all keep forgetting Swain can’t die,” Elena reminded us.

  “But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t hang,” Mike countered. “He became a shadow, it’s true, but we don’t know to what degree his body would degenerate between life and death. I want the circumstances of his disappearance. I suspect we may find answers in the Admiralty records.”

  “And where are those?” she asked.

  “Housed in the National Archives in Kew, not far from London.”

  “Our next stop?” Ranofur questioned. At Mike’s confirmation, he calmly returned to his magazine.

  It was two more hours to Kew. By that point, I had a fair case of whiplash to go with my rigor mortis, and I knew with certainty that I’d have to be pried from the car with a crowbar.

  Ranofur set aside his magazine as we approached the outskirts. “Be on guard,” he warned. “A city is a natural place for the enemy to blend in. Keep your weapons at the ready.” I transferred my makeup case from my backpack to my sweatshirt pocket.

  The Archives was a sprawling, modern complex curved along a manmade pond. “It’s sort of a library under glass,” Mike informed us as we passed stiffly through the entryway. We walked like a posse of robots. “You have to order the documents you want to view and a staff member will bring them to you. But locating them initially is the difficult part. This could take a little time.”

  Mike led the way through a large lobby with a restaurant, coffee bar, bookshop, and museum. It had more in common with a shopping mall than a library. I had my hand in my pocket the whole time. Maybe Ranofur’s warning had put me on edge. Maybe I’d just seen enough creepy stuff to be ready for anything.

  Mike seemed perfectly at ease in the building, like he’d been there a hundred times. He probably had been. “We have to pass through a security checkpoint up ahead,” he told us as we entered a locker room. “No bags are allowed. All of our belongings must stay in here.”

  “Not our weapons,” Ranofur insisted.

  “Of course not. Kids, hand them over and I’ll tuck them in my coat.”

  Elena removed the leather satchel that held her crossbow and gave it to Mike, who stuffed it out of sight. Then Mike held out his hand for my sword.

  “No way,” I said, backing up. “I want mine where I can reach it.”

  “I can see the bulge in your sweatshirt pocket,” he protested. “They’ll make you check it in.”

  “It says no coats in the reading rooms, either,” I said, jabbing my thumb at a sign near the door.

  With a curt nod, Mike folded his jacket into a tiny bundle, flipped the pocket inside out around it, and the entire thing disappeared. He tucked the invisible bundle into the pocket of his jeans with a flourish.

  “I can do that, too,” I said slyly. I pulled the case out of my pocket and tucked it into the waistline of my jeans. Then I covered it with my bulky sweatshirt and waved my hands in the air like a magician. “Ta-da.”

  Ranofur chuckled, and Mike pushed me toward a set of stairs. We passed through the security checkpoint without a blip, through a foyer, into the Research and Inquiries Room, and straight to a desk marked Military, Maritime, and Family History.

  “May I help you?” smiled a grandfatherly gentleman with horn-rimmed glasses and a twill suit. He looked the type to pass out lint-covered peppermints to children at church.

  “Please,” Mike answered. “We’re looking for information about a pirate named Bartholomew Swain.”

  His hushed voice sounded loud in the silent room. I winced, glancing around to see if we’d been overheard. The few people browsing through reference materials or sitting at tables completely ignored us. Ranofur took up a position at the door of the room, his massive arms crossed over
his chest.

  “Do you have a date?”

  “1693. We’d like records of a trial, a hanging, a death certificate, anything you can find.”

  As Mike spoke with the fellow, I studied the room, noting the location of doors and windows and the sections marked Staff Only. It was a fair-sized area with the creepy feel of a library but without the rows of shelves to hide behind. I felt exposed, as if hidden eyes were studying me. It made my skin crawl. I sauntered into the microfilm room to get away from it.

  Two ladies were using the viewing machines. One was older and had sneaked a bagel past security. She broke off chunks in her pocket and discretely slipped them into her mouth. The other was younger, pretty, but she wore pajama pants and a messy ponytail like she just rolled out of bed. Both women were intent on their research, but the nagging feeling of being watched didn’t go away. It intensified.

  Back in the reading room, Mike still stood by the desk while the old man squinted at his computer and pecked hesitantly at the keys. I blew out an impatient breath. This could take a lot longer than we feared.

  People were beginning to notice Mike now. He was a spectacle most folks didn’t see everyday. Coupled with the huge figure of Ranofur planted at the doorway like an X-Men action figure come horribly to life, they probably thought he was some B-list rock star who had brought along a bodyguard.

  I wandered to a row of bookshelves located at the far end of the room to remove myself from any more curious glances. Browsing among the titles, I pulled out a volume on Marshalsea Prison and sank onto a plush chair to flip through it.

  Time slowed to that dull crawl reserved for math class or those apprehensive moments before parents dole out a punishment. Eventually, Mike settled at one of the tables with a document or two. Perhaps “settled” doesn’t really capture Mike in a library. The phantoms of a thousand years of history infused him with energy. He bounced worse than a kid on a treasure hunt—or a sugar high—thrilled to bursting with his dusty old paper trail. Elena joined him, put her head down, and promptly fell asleep. Ranofur remained motionless by the door.