by Ethan Proud
Swain passed his son the ingredients. “Bring a pot to boil.”
Dutifully, Hugh rose and did as his father ordered. A moment later De’lune came back inside with two wriggling toads.
“What do we do with these, sir.” Her melodic voice made Mission’s insides churn.
“F-for now, put them in a glass so they don’t get away. Before we drink the tea, we will tie them together,” Mission explained.
“Tie them together?” Swain inquired and leaned forward over the table. He took the toads from his daughter and set them in his now empty glass.
“They don’t like it and will croak. What kind of demon are you looking for?” Mission asked.
“One of Mond’s familiars.”
From its perch on the stove, the tea kettle began to whistle.
Chapter Nine
Ruckstead headed south on the Main Road. Wineae’s head bobbed as the sheriff directed her towards the Ramek Property. He was still far away, having only left Artemisia’s cottage half an hour ago. However, he was determined to visit both the Rameks and Westons today.
***
Tea consumed and protesting amphibians bound, the Ramek clan and Mission sat around the table waiting for the brew to kick in. The toads chorused on the table, alternating their plaintive cries.
“How long until we can leave our bodies?” Swain asked. Hugh looked anxious, while De’lune looked serene.
“It shouldn’t be long,” Mission said and observed his hands which were set palm down on the table. “Focus on your breathing. Your chest will begin to feel heavy.”
The group fell silent and only the sound of their long, even breaths could be heard. Mission closed his eyes and felt his hands begin to levitate centimeters from the table. He rose, feeling lighter than possible. There was a slight strain as his soul separated from his flesh, but he successfully left his physical form behind.
“Stand up,” he demanded, his figure ethereal and light, imperceptibly shifting like a leaf disturbed by a gentle breeze. His protégés followed suit, struggling for a moment to perform their first separation.
“Is this the second plane?” Hugh asked as he looked around. Everything had a harder edge and the colors were brighter.
“No, we have to travel to it first.” Mission turned and pointed to the front door. It was no longer the door he had entered through. It was softer than the other objects in the room and breathed as if alive. Tendrils of mist crept from beneath the door sill. The wood was nearly translucent and revealed a forest of twisting black trees that twisted and rose to impossible heights.
Mission moved easily across the floor, his steps louder than usual as he swung the portal open. He ushered his companions out the door and into the second plane. The ground was littered in moss with tiny, yellow blooms and lichen that curled with open, blabbering mouths. No sound was emitted from the fungal symbionts, but their apothecia flexed, nonetheless. Mission’s booted feet made no more noise as he crossed the threshold and a deafening silence overwhelmed the group.
“How do we hunt the demons?” Swain demanded. His voice echoed back to him many times and made ripples through the air as if it had been a solid object. In this other plane of existence, De’lune’s damaged eye appeared whole.
“You don’t hunt them, we must manifest what you desire,” Mission directed. “Focus on it and tell me what you see.”
Swain closed his eyes for a moment before snapping them open. “Bones.”
“Bones?” Mission asked and began searching for the first clue. He spotted a partial ribcage sticking out from a fallen log. He crossed the earth to it and turned back to Swain.
“What next?”
“Trees?” Swain said, looking around at the gnarled trunks around him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mission’s expression revealed that he was not amused.
“I wish I was,” Swain said as the leaves miles above their head began to rustle. Foliage the size of canoes began raining down, each one shimmering and golden. A stark contrast to the shadowy bark.
“Focus,” Misison growled.
“I am,” Swain said through gritted teeth. As soon as the words had left his mouth, impish laughter floated back to them. The decibels undulated in intensity while the patter of thousands of footsteps created a maddening crescendo.
“Congratulations,” Mission turned to the sound as a single creature approached. It was green with long ears, hunched at the shoulders, and had a mane of black hair arcing between a pair of stumpy wings.
The demon took flight, an ugly movement, before alighting amid the humans. Its irises were as red as its teeth yellow, its black tongue flitted between sharp teeth.
“Who dared summon me?” it demanded in a shrill voice that threatened to shatter eardrums.
“We did.” De’lune said evenly.
The creature bowed slightly. “I am honored, Daughter of Mond. But these mongrels should not have come.”
Mission remained quiet. His mind reeled at the title endowed to De’lune as well as the insult given to Swain and Hugh.
None of the humans spoke for several long minutes while the demon regarded them. When it was apparent that the Rameks did not know what they actually sought, Mission shifted uneasily. He pivoted his hips to dart for the doorway to the first plane when the demon pointed at him with a knobby finger.
“Another being is searching your presence and he is coming now.” The demon leered as its eyes flashed with delight.
“I have no quarrel with Vahrun,” Mission said as sweat beaded on his forehead. Goosebumps rose along his arms as if icy water had been poured down his neck.
“Just as his brother had no quarrel with Artemisia. He will accept your eternal torment as vengeance against your cousin,” the demon warned. The air grew hot and a keening drowned out the wind.
Mission turned with dread and saw a hulking creature with the head of a three-eyed cat cutting a beeline for him. The demon had four arms and was covered in warty growths of exposed teeth.
“Time to go,” Mission breathed as he darted for the door, not bothering to see if his companions followed him. The door slammed as the last of the four entered the first plane. Violently they were pulled back into their bodies. They shuddered for a moment, and as the convulsions ceased, they retched in unison.
“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Mission said with a dry mouth. The cries of the toads nearly drowned out his voice.
***
Mission clambered across the birch tree and jumped to the ground outside the Ramek property. He cut back to the road, thoroughly shaken. He would have to have a word with Artemisia next time he visited her cabin. This was the fourth time Vahrun had detected him while traveling and forced him back to the human realm.
He had barely traveled a quarter-mile before he ran right into Wineae and an angry Ruckstead.
“Did I not warn you against coming here?” the sheriff started angrily.
Mission’s skin still gleamed with sweat and his pupils were dilated many times their normal size. He barely stuttered out an answer before Sheriff Ruckstead slid from the saddle gracefully. He easily forced Mission to the ground and clasped irons around his wrists. The youth didn’t bother to protest.
“This is for your own good,” Ruckstead growled as he heaved Mission onto his horse. The sheriff turned the mare back towards town. The jail had just gained another resident.
Chapter Ten
Artemisia allowed her ire to settle for three days before visiting her cousin and the kind sheriff. Newt carried her swiftly into town, a torrential dust storm rising behind them. She wore a black cloak lined with the fur of a silver fox, black riding gloves, boots, and a necklace of lynx teeth hung at her throat above a gray tunic. She wasn’t sure who she was trying to frighten more, Mission or Ruckstead. Perhaps the both of them. She swung from the saddle before her mount had even come to a stop, but once she was free of the saddle the horse stopped to watch her stride into the jailhouse. Her blonde
hair hung over one shoulder in a French braid and broke her dark countenance.
“Artemisia,” Deputy Kerfield said in shock as she pushed the door open.
“James,” came her terse reply.
Ruckstead lowered the newspaper. His duster jacket and felt hat hung on a coat stand behind him, giving her a clear view of his maroon vest and silver pocket watch. His feet were stretched out before him as if this would be a casual conversation. “I was beginning to wonder if you would come.”
“I did not come here for your humor,” she said through clenched teeth. Ruckstead only grinned a wry crescent moon. Artemisia continued, “If you wish for my assistance in the criminal affairs of this town, you would do best not to arrest my kin.”
“I am bound by the law,” Ruckstead said with a flat expression. He was amazed at the gumption of this woman. She was asking for preferential treatment from the Sheriff of Northgate!
The witch held up a hand to stop any further arguments from the sheriff. She turned to her cousin, the lone occupant of the cell. “I told you to never have dealings with the Rameks, Killdeers, or the Mayor! How long have you been going behind my back?”
“Months. But I think I-” Mission protested, his eyes holding the fiery and indomitable will of youth.
“If you utter another lie to me…” Artemisia let the threat trail off.
“Another lie?” Mission asked scathingly.
“You said you thought, which obviously you haven’t lately. If you step out of line again, I will bind you in the form of a rodent and allow Volker to have his way with you.” Artemisia straightened before saying, “However, if you are even slightly resourceful in the dark arts, you’ll find a way out of here.”
With that, she left the jail and thundered back to her cottage.
“James, leave us,” Ruckstead said eying the younger Corax. Mission shifted uneasily.
“Yessir.” The door shut a moment later, leaving Mission and Ruckstead alone.
“As you said, you think…” Ruckstead raised an eyebrow.
“I’d rather not tell you, you wouldn’t believe.” Mission folded his arms and stared defiantly at the sheriff.
“I wouldn’t believe you, or I wouldn’t believe in gods and monsters?” Ruckstead smiled. “I may become a believer after this entire ordeal. Telling me your suspicion won’t keep you in that cell any longer.”
At the promise of freedom, Mission reconsidered his stubbornness. He sat down on the stool in the corner of his bower.
“The Rameks were searching for a demon associated with Mond. Do you know who that is?”
“Goddess of the Moon, your cousin told me of her, D’rij and werewolves.” Ruckstead answered Mission through a cigar as he struck a match and inhaled the first puff of tobacco. “Searching for the demon where?”
“The second plane. They found it, and it called them both mongrels. Swain and Hugh are your wolves.” Mission had deliberately left out De’lune’s involvement. He couldn’t bear the thought of her arrest or eventual hanging.
“What about the daughter?” Ruckstead asked, and Mission shook his head. “What else did the demon say?”
“We had to leave. The demon Vahrun interrupted,” Mission said evasively.
“Why does Vahrun frighten you when Mond’s demon does not?” the sheriff inquired.
“Now that is a question for Artemisia,” Mission answered with a leer.
“I think I’ll wait to visit her again until I release you.” The sheriff stood, shrugged on his jacket and donned his hat.
“You said if I told you what I learned at the Rameks’ you’d let me out!” Mission stood, his jaw unhinged by an incredulous stare.
“No, I told you I wouldn’t keep you in here for any longer. Have a good day now.” He tipped the hat ironically and left his prisoner to pace behind the bars.
***
Outside the jail, Ruckstead saddled Wineae.
“James, now that our esteemed visitor has made her wrath known, I can go about the rest of my business,” Ruckstead said as he stood up in the stirrup and swung his right leg over the saddle.
“What did Mission tell you?” Deputy Kerfield asked, overwhelmed by curiosity.
Ruckstead looked at his protégé evenly. “That is the business of the Sheriff of Northgate.”
“Yessir.” Kerfield turned red after the admonishment.
The sheriff spurred his horse and headed back to the Ramek property.
The senescing aspen leaves were a brilliant orange and gold, littering the road only weeks after first turning color. Only the conifers and sagebrush still held onto their green foliage. Ruckstead pulled back on the reins and stopped at the locked iron gate. The Rameks detested visitors. From the gate he spied De’lune working in the garden. She fluidly appeared opposite to Ruckstead after she finished deadheading the lilac. Brave, making the sheriff wait. Then again, she was on the other side of a locked gate.
“Can I help you?” she lilted.
“I would like to speak with your father. Your property is in the middle of some recent murders. We have no suspects. I am inquiring on any unusual activity.” The blatant lie didn’t betray itself on his face or in his voice. The Rameks were the only suspects.
“I am afraid that my father and brother are in town. I believe they are at the Hanging Moose Saloon if that helps.” She nervously spread her hands across the front of her apron which was covered in dirt.
“Have you seen anything to warrant concern?” Ruckstead pressed politely.
De’lune tittered. “I’m afraid I have not, but I only have one eye to see with.”
Ruckstead stammered a minute before tipping his hat and turned Wineae around and trotted back towards Northgate. Next stop, the Hanging Moose.
Chapter Eleven
Artemisia had groomed, watered, and fed Newt and left him in his paddock. She grabbed a wicker basket and headed out into the woods. Underneath the boughs of the spruce and white pine, the air was five degrees cooler than around her cottage. Her gardens were nearing peak harvest. She would need to split firewood the next week. The stack by Newt’s stable would last until midwinter, but the winters in Northgate always overstayed their welcome.
It was only two o’clock and sunset was five hours off at least. Artemisia had several hours to make it to her favorite mushroom hunting grounds. Her cottage was located at the base of Gilbert Mountain, and the north facing slope always yielded a plentiful harvest. Artemisia had built her abode low enough that the snow never got deeper than four feet, while the high country could see more than fifteen feet. Gilbert was the lowest peak in the Windgall Range. Northgate was located in a valley between the Windgall and Coprinia Range which Mimbry, Horned, and Northgate Peaks were a part of.
Her boots crunched through the leaves as she traveled along a well-worn path that had only been touched by the witch’s feet and the hooves and paws of animals. Not even Mission was allowed to visit her wild harvest areas. Maybe when he was more responsible he would be privileged with the knowledge. Behaving had never been his strong suit. Artemisia snorted at the thought. She pondered on whether or not he would figure out the secret to getting out of the jail. It had little to do with witchcraft, but she couldn’t give away all her tricks.
A mewling behind her alerted her to Volker. His long tail bounced as he jogged up to her ankle. He wove across her boots and she gave him a gentle nudge to let him know not to trip her. He glared at her with his yellow eyes and made another plaintive cry before darting off in front of her. Despite how desiccated the leaves and plants were, the cat did not make a single noise. He re-emerged with a jay clenched between his jaws, the proudest expression plastered across his face.
“I told you, rodents only. Leave the birds be,” Artemisia scolded him. He glared angrily for a second before setting the bird down. Where it had clearly been dead a moment before, the jay sat up startled, and looked around in a state of confusion. When its eyes landed on the cat, it took flight immediately.
&nbs
p; “Go find a squirrel. You act out worse than Mission.”
The cat was clearly indignant at the comment, but took off through the understory, nonetheless. Artemisia basked in the peace and quiet. The birds chirped in the trees, squirrels chattered, and somewhere an elk bugled. It wasn’t exactly silent, but the relaxing power of the sounds of the forest was second only to a crackling fire and a good book in the dead of winter.
The trail took a graceful turn and the mountaintop shifted from being in front of her to her right. She passed a downed tree covered in polypore fungi. She would be dead or close to it by the time the wood had been decomposed and the trees returned to the earth. That meant her landmark would outlive her. She only had a mile to go before she arrived at the glade and a bounty of boletes, wood ears, and — if she was lucky — morels.
Fate did not shine on Artemisia that day. When she arrived at the glade she heard a slow, ominous chant. She ducked down low to the ground and crept closer to the clearing. Hiding behind a tree trunk she felt bold enough to peer beyond its edge.
In the center of the field of rolling grass and mint a flat rock protruded. Upon it, Artemisia had taken plenty of naps. However, now a human had been bound. Four other individuals stood; each bore the pelt of a different animal. One wore an elk, its skull worn like a hat, its antlers reaching impossibly high to be supported by a human neck. Another wore three foxes, stitched together. Two of the heads were bound in permanent snarls at the woman’s shoulders, while the third covered her face. The third wore an osprey, a necklace of talons around his neck and the fourth was adorned as a mountain lion. The creature’s claws were splayed across his chest. The First People were no friends of the witch, but she had encountered them more than once. They had an intimate relationship with the earth and saw themselves as humans transcending into their true animal form. The figure bound to the stone was lashed with willow rods until he stopped screaming and only babbled. The four humans around him danced and sang and slapped their palms on the rock as if calling to a god above.