Druid Bond

by Brad Magnarella

  But Gorgantha took the prize. Her massive mer form hulked inside a red satin dress, thick petticoats concealing her tail. A mass of dark plaited hair hid the fin running down the back of her neck while her face was glamoured into that of a woman’s with bulbous eyes. It wasn’t a flattering look, but it worked.

  I also noticed that although there were red-coated British troops everywhere, they weren’t paying us the least attention. And not because we blended in—none of us were in military uniform. It had to be something else. When a pair of soldiers bearing infantry guns approached, Jordan drew his staff back.

  “Wait,” I whispered. “I don’t think they can see us.”

  We watched them cautiously, Jordan’s staff remaining in striking position. But the soldiers were walking casually, chatting to one another about what sounded like a cricket game. When they reached us, they veered around and continued on their way, bayonet scabbards slapping their thighs.

  “Must be Osgood’s doing,” I said. “A blending enchantment, most likely.”

  “That’s right!” Malachi blurted out. “He said he’d take care of the issue of the British troops, but that we’d only have so much time.”

  “Meaning it’s not going to last,” Seay remarked, the light that enveloped her hands fading.

  “His instructions were to take the most direct route to the water.” I looked around to get my bearings, but the fortress we’d entered was no longer here. In its place were earthen ramparts topped with soldiers and cannons. The precursor to Fort Jay, I guessed. Lantern light shone here and there in the growing dusk. Not wanting to be caught on the island when the enchantment wore off, I was about to suggest we just pick a direction and go when I remembered that we had a mermaid on the team.

  “Can you lead us to the water?” I asked Gorgantha.

  She was inspecting her satin dress and rustling petticoats. “What is this mess?”

  “Let’s worry about our costumes when we’re somewhere safe,” Jordan said.

  “He’s right,” I said. “We need to get to the water.”

  With a grunt, Gorgantha released the dress and raised her head. “This way,” she said.

  As we made our way through the earthworks, I noticed our packs had become era-appropriate linen and leather rucksacks and purses. But I was much more fascinated by our surroundings, namely the soldiers in their formal military uniforms and powdered wigs. I tuned into bits of passing conversation.

  “…that miserable lot…”

  “…give General Howe credit…”

  “…only roused my taste for American women…”

  A faint explosion of laughter, probably from a barracks, burst up and settled down again. It was like walking through a hobbyists’ reenactment or a public television documentary, too real to seem entirely real.

  We cleared the earthworks and crowds of soldiers and crossed a trench on a plank bridge. From there we got our first look at where the salt-water estuary that was the East River met Upper Bay. Massive warships occupied the bay like sentries, their towering sail-furled masts silhouetted against the darkening sky. Beyond them, points of light glimmered along what must have been the southern end of Manhattan, the tallest buildings no more than three or four stories.

  Wow, I kept repeating to myself.

  But with the clock ticking down on Osgood’s enchantment, now wasn’t the time to gawk. I focused on the stone seawall below, scanning its length until I spotted a dock where several small boats rocked.

  “There,” I said, pointing them out.

  We hurried down a path and then onto a wooden pier. Choosing a boat, I waved for the others to board. When they were all on, I began uncoiling the thick rope that secured the boat to a piling.

  “Hey!” a voice called. “What d’ye think yer doin’?”

  I looked over as a heavyset man in a British uniform emerged from a small building and lumbered toward us. Given its darkness, I’d thought the building empty. Regardless, he shouldn’t have been able to see us. I peered over at my four teammates, who were settling into the boat. Was the enchantment wearing off?

  “I asked ye a question,” the man said.

  “Um, we’re taking a boat out?” I answered.

  “And where d’ye think yer taking ’er?” His voice was thick with challenge as he arrived in front of me.

  “The mainland.”

  He squinted at me from a jowly face sheened in oil and sweat, then at my teammates. I picked up a sour odor of booze and observed the effect in his bloodshot eyes. Was drunkenness allowing him to see through Osgood’s enchantment? His right hand closed around the hilt of a sword sheathed at his belt.

  “We’re going to the mainland,” I repeated, this time risking the use of my wizard’s voice.

  His eyes shot back to mine, a burbly growl sounding deep in his barrel chest. Damn. If I had to drop this man with an invocation, what kind of ripples would that send out? Even beating him with my cane could have consequences, such as earning us a place on His Majesty’s most wanted list.

  “God save the King,” I said, channeling power into the words. I held the man’s gaze. After another moment, he burped loudly and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that had been clenching the sword hilt.

  “Well, go careful,” he said. “Rumors of sharpshooters in Brooklyn.”

  My shoulders let out a little. “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Rebel dogs,” he scowled. “Imagine them an’ that coward Washington tryin’ t’ run the colonies.”

  “I’d rather not.” When I faked a shudder, the man gave an appreciative snort.

  “I’ll signal yer passing,” he said and hustled back up to his building.

  I finished uncoiling the rope and tossed it aboard before climbing in myself. Gorgantha already had the oars in hand, and she began rowing us out into the East River. I looked up the broad waterway, struck not only by the absence of the iconic Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, but by the undeveloped shorelines that stretched away into darkness. When I peered back, the man was covering and uncovering a lantern through a window, which explained why he kept his building unlit. A moment later, the closest warship signaled back.

  “‘God save the King?’” Seay asked.

  “I heard it in a movie. Hey, it worked.”

  She made a skeptical face. “Nice hat.”

  I’d barely been aware I was wearing one. I removed it now and took it in my hands. A black revolutionary-era three-cornered hat. I ran a hand over my pulled-back hair to where it had been gathered into a ponytail and secured by a ribbon. It appeared Osgood’s magic had actually altered our clothes and hair. Other details had been glamoured so we’d better blend in. Gorgantha’s mermaid features, for example.

  But our encounter with the British soldier was worrying.

  I replaced my hat and addressed the team. “Listen up, everyone. It looks like the blending enchantment is wearing off, so we need to keep our heads down and speak as little as possible until we’re safely lodged.”

  “No argument here,” Malachi muttered, his gaze transfixed on the massive warships.

  We crossed the river in good time, thanks to Gorgantha’s powerful strokes, and drifted toward a waterfront of docks and warehouses on the eastern side of Manhattan’s southern tip. Though the air smelled like fall, it was cool instead of cold, and humid. I directed Gorgantha past some merchant ships to where several smaller boats were tied up. A few figures moved around the wharfs, their shouts crude-sounding, but it looked like the day’s cargo work was done. We disembarked quickly and quietly.

  “Where are we?” Jordan whispered as I led the team across a rutted dirt road and away from the waterfront.

  I brought my pack around—linen now with a buckled flap—and pulled out the book I’d bought at the store. I opened it to one of the 1776 survey maps I’d earmarked.

  “Let’s see.” On the map, I ran a finger along the shoreline. “We docked here, so we must be close to…” I peered around. “Yes!” We ha
d accessed another dirt road that ran into the city, but it wasn’t just any road. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, pointing to a sign on the cornice of a building. “I present Wall Street.”

  “Unbelievable,” Malachi said, staring down its length of modest brick buildings. Far ahead, street lamps glowed, and the occasional horse-drawn cart clattered past an intersection. Because of his work with St. Martin’s Cathedral, which stood near the Broadway end of Wall Street, Malachi knew this section of modern New York well.

  “This isn’t a tour,” Jordan said.

  Seay was giving me an unimpressed look too. They had come to hunt a Stranger and recover their loved ones, not marvel over how the city had looked two hundred fifty years ago. For her part, Gorgantha continued to grumble over her dress.

  “Wall Street will lead us to Nassau,” I said, trying to recover a tone of authority. “Seay, walk up here with me. Malachi in the middle. Jordan and Gorgantha in the rear. We need to look like we’ve walked this street a hundred times before.”

  As I started down Wall Street, Seay slipped her hands around my arm and drew herself against me.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  She flashed a flirtatious smile, light sparkling in her eyes. “Just playing the part.”

  I sighed but let her stay there, in part because her perfumed hair was helping cover the stink of raw sewage that seemed to come from everywhere. I marked the intersections: Burnett, then Queen. What must have been a meat market appeared on our right, a corner plot of hard-packed dirt, wooden stalls stained with blood.

  Down the next long block, a door opened, and light and laughter spilled onto the street along with a pair of men. As they passed us, the obviously drunken duo leered at Seay with bleary eyes and missing teeth and slurred unintelligibly. They’d emerged from a tavern named McGowan’s. Beyond a steamed-up window, I could make out the impressions of patrons, but the large space wasn’t very crowded.

  “Are you trippin’?” Gorgantha hissed behind me.

  I turned to find Jordan pulling open the door to the tavern.

  “Hey!” I called. “Stick to the plan!”

  “We need info,” he called back, and went inside.

  I was pissed enough to say the hell with him and continue to Nassau Street, but we couldn’t separate so soon after arriving. Swearing, I nodded at the others and led the way into the tavern after him.

  24

  The faces that turned from their tankards looked like the men who had just stumbled out: bearded, dirty, and either drunk or well on their way. Dockworkers and mariners connected to the waterfront, I guessed. Their conversations fell to murmurs as they eyed us. And we did not fit in here.

  Jordan was already halfway across the plank floor, cutting past tables like he owned the damned place. His destination was a stout woman behind the bar wearing a plain blouse and apron. The thick forearms folded below her chest were the color of bricks. She shifted her hard eyes from Jordan to us.

  Wonderful.

  I had half a mind to drag the druid back into the street by his cloak, but I didn’t want to draw any more attention than we already had. As if a group that included a minister and a six-and-a-half-foot woman could draw more attention. Seay, who must have read the situation, waved us over to a large table in the corner where the light from the candles placed around the tavern didn’t fully reach. With the humid heat of bodies warming the place, a large stone hearth beside the table remained dark.

  Seay and I ended up on the side of the table facing the bar. “It’s not a bad idea,” she remarked.

  I stared at her, incredulous. “Not a bad idea? We had one immediate goal: find lodgings. And now look at us.”

  “So?”

  “So? What are we doing here?”

  “And how do you sit in this wack thing?” Gorgantha asked, trying to shift the bulk of the petticoats out from under her. When her tail popped out, I peered around anxiously to make sure no one else had seen.

  “Look, hon.” Seay rested a hand on my forearm. “I did some bartending back in high school. Glamoured ID,” she explained. “Well, I glamoured pretty much everything. Made a killing in tips. Anyway, we had a few regulars who knew what happened in the neighborhood, down to which rat crossed MacDougal Street at 2:22 a.m. the Monday before. Trust me. If anything strange is happening in 1776 New York City, chances are good someone has told Miss Personality over there.”

  At the bar, Jordan was leaned forward, one elbow resting on the polished wood. The woman’s expression remained hard and unyielding. I’d tagged her as a barmaid, but now I was thinking tavern keeper.

  “You mean like ganky types coming and going?” Gorgantha asked when she’d finally gotten herself settled.

  “Exactly,” Seay said.

  Jordan turned and gestured toward our group.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Malachi muttered.

  “Yeah, you and me both,” I said.

  After a moment, the tavern keeper gave a curt nod and shouted something behind her. Jordan pulled a pouch from a pocket. I had one too, I realized, in the front pocket of my breeches, heavy with coins. I checked my other pockets. In the opposite one, I found a bronze watch whose filigreed hands indicated 7:10 p.m. Nested in the breast pocket of my coat were a wooden pipe and a tin packed with tobacco leaf. Osgood hadn’t skimped on the details.

  I returned everything as Jordan set a pair of coins on the bar. He said something else to the tavern keeper, set down one more coin, and walked toward our table.

  “We’re not staying,” I said.

  “Relax.” He sat on Seay’s other side. “I just ordered our dinner. We have to eat sometime, don’t we?”

  “What was the final coin for?” I demanded.

  His eyes shifted to the bar, where the tavern keeper was filling a cluster of tankards from a tapped cask. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Look,” I said in a lowered voice. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not from around here. You waltz into a place like this asking questions and showing your bulky coin purse, the only thing you’re going to get is a knife in the back.” A few of the patrons were still peering at us over hunched shoulders and from behind tankards. “Now I say we stand up, walk out, and get back to our plan. No needless interactions, remember?”

  “Too late,” Gorgantha said.

  The tavern keeper had rounded the bar and was coming toward us with five sloshing tankards in her fists. “Here ye go,” she said in an Irish accent, setting them around. “The stew’ll be out shortly.” The place reeked of smoke and body odor, but at the mention of stew, I picked up an undercurrent of cooked fish that wasn’t unpleasant.

  “Thank you,” Jordan said, looking at the tavern keeper meaningfully.

  She seemed to hesitate as she glanced around the tavern. “My cook might have something t’ tell ye,” she said in a lowered voice. She returned to the bar and disappeared into what must have been the kitchen.

  Jordan sat back. “You were saying, Croft?”

  “Yeah, I’ll congratulate you when we actually have some useful info,” I replied thinly. “In the meantime, I’m not trusting anything that woman poured.”

  Jordan raised his tankard to his mouth and left it there a moment, eyes shifting. At last he swallowed and lowered the tankard. “It’s clean,” he declared. I was about to ask how he knew, but druids had uncanny senses, and that included detecting poisons.

  I took a swallow of my own ale, for no other reason than to calm my nerves. The drink was hard and flat and landed in my empty stomach like a stone. The alcohol found my bloodstream almost immediately. I was contemplating another swallow when a lanky man appeared from the back of the tavern. He was young with a narrow face, long hair, and honest eyes. He arrived with a platter of steaming bowls and stooped over to set it on the end of our table.

  Up close, I sensed his nervousness.

  “I understan’ yer asking after strange doin’s,” he said in a lowered voice, tossing loose s
trands of hair from his eyes. “Well, there’s been strange doin’s aplenty lately.” He set the first bowl in front of Gorgantha, obviously going about it slowly to buy himself time. “My father was a Patriot soldier, captured in the Battle fer Long Island. Fer months we didn’t know if he was prisoner or dead.” He set another bowl in front of Malachi. “But then he turned up sudden a couple weeks back. No shoes on his feet. Shirt and pants covered in…” He glanced at Seay. “Pardon me for saying so, but shit and piss. And smellin’ like the grave. Best we could tell, the British Army had held him prisoner but then turned him out fer some reason.” He lowered his voice further. “But it’s not him.”

  “What do you mean?” Jordan asked, taking his bowl.

  “He stares at my ma and me like he dunno who we are. Wanders about the city at all hours. It’s like there’s nothin’ inside him.”

  A zombie?

  “How does he seem physically?” I asked. “Any injuries or wounds? Gangrene?”

  “No, sir,” the boy answered. “We cleaned him up, and those he had are healed. It’s his mind that’s gone.”

  “War can do that to people,” I said, not sure if they had a word for PTSD in the late eighteenth century.

  But as the boy set a bowl down in front of Seay, he shook his head.

  “It’s not jus’ him. There are more in his state turnin’ up around the city.”

  “Are any of them wearing cloaks?” Jordan asked, holding up the hem of his. “Something like this?” He was asking if any possessed druids were among them, but the boy frowned in thought before shaking his head.

  “Any women?” Seay asked.

  “No, ma’am,” the boy answered.

  “How about dark-skinned folks?” Jordan pressed.

  “I’ve seen a few freemen in that condition, but they’re all Patriot soldiers. Most of ’em white. Must’ve given a loyalty oath or something to get turned out, ’cause the Brits don’t bother ’em now. Either that or their minds are too broke for the Crown to care. And I’ve seen some of ’em with weapons.”

  I was wondering if the soldiers’ brains had been chemically altered somehow so they’d no longer pose a threat, but I couldn’t remember reading anything like that in the history books. No, this felt like an evil force at work. But was it some unspoken facet of history, or was it special to the time catch?