Trifles and Folly 2

by Gail Z. Martin

  Great. Just great. The last thing we need are any more evil elves scurrying around Charleston. “All right,” I said with a sigh. “Where did you say the booth was?”

  Niella gave me directions, and I maneuvered through the holiday crowds. The City Market is always busy, but so many tourists had come to shop for the holidays that the aisles were shoulder-to-shoulder.

  Even with the likelihood of a new kind of killer gremlin to deal with, I couldn’t help taking in a deep breath and enjoying the Market for a moment. I could smell fresh pecan-flavored coffee, hot cinnamon buns, steaming apple cider, and warm roasted peanuts. Holiday music played from speakers overhead and the vendors’ tables were heaped with beautiful things to eat, buy, and give.

  I reminded myself that I had an errand, and dove back into the crowd. But when I reached the booth, everything was gone. “Do you know anything about the person who set up here today?” I asked the merchant in the next stall.

  She was a plump lady selling embroidered table linens from Eastern Europe. “Sorry. Never saw the man before today. I’m not sure how he got permission to be in the booth—it’s been McCartney’s Art Prints for as long as I’ve had a stall here.”

  I remembered the art vendor who was normally in the space. The other merchant brought up a good point—prime stalls were prized and hard to come by. Once an artist or business owner snagged a good spot, he or she didn’t let it go. I suspected that subletting your space to other people was probably against the rules. That made the whole thing even stranger.

  Since my magic lets me read the strong emotions and magic of objects, I’m very attuned to the mood of physical places. Certain locations resonate so strongly with me that I can pick up on the vibes through the soles of my shoes. That’s one of many reasons I don’t tour battlefields. I usually enjoy the City Market because of its resonance, which is overwhelmingly positive. Most people who come here are happy.

  That’s why I was puzzled when I stepped into the empty stall and felt very different energy than what I picked up in the rest of the market. The energy in the booth swirled with anger, vindictiveness, and dark, wild magic. Whoever the man was with the Hearth Hob figures, he was barely in control of himself, a loose cannon ready to blow. I didn’t know whether his little statues had anything to do with the redcaps or not, and I couldn’t tell whether he was the danger or the hob statues were malicious themselves. But Mrs. Teller was right about the danger. I just didn’t know what to do about it.

  Just then, my phone buzzed. “Hey Cassidy, did you forget about going over to the Museum? Alistair just called wondering where you were.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yikes. I forgot. Can you let him know I’ll be over as fast as I can get there? And give him my apologies, please.”

  Teag chuckled. “Already did. So you’d better get going.”

  I was glad the day was cool by the time I speed walked over to the Museum. Alistair McKinnon is a good friend and a valuable professional contact. I knew he would forgive me for being late, but it’s not something I like to make a habit of doing. I jogged up the stairs to the Lowcountry Museum, waved at the receptionist who knew me, and never broke stride until I got to Alistair’s office.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I puffed as Alistair opened the door.

  He shrugged. “No harm done. I just wanted to walk you through the new exhibit, since Trifles and Folly was kind enough to loan us several pieces to put on display.”

  Once I caught my breath, I remembered that the Museum would be debuting its “Charleston Christmas Through the Ages” collection this coming weekend. Our store and the Museum often helped each other out on appraisals and provenance, as well as loaning items for events like the Christmas program. I had been so deep in my thoughts about redcaps and Hearth Hobs that I couldn’t remember what items Trifles and Folly had provided this year.

  “I think we’ve got our strongest collection ever this year,” Alistair said as we walked toward the closed doors of the exhibit room. He unlocked the door and flicked on the lights.

  “Wow,” I said, as a row of Christmas trees with decorations from various time periods lit up. Display cases were filled with all kinds of holiday memorabilia. Fragile blown glass ornaments adorned trees along with decorations of woven straw and sweetgrass, hand-painted porcelain balls, and figures made from felt. Glass cases held examples of period clothing, old fashioned toys, and programs from long-ago Christmas pageants and parades. “You’ve really outdone yourselves.”

  Now I remembered the items Trifles and Folly had loaned the museum: A big iron cowbell and a long Dutch wooden horn. “Your items are right here,” Alistair said, drawing me over toward one of the cases. The Dutch and the Germans were among Charleston’s early settlers, and Alistair wanted displays highlighting all of the immigrant groups who made the city their home.

  Sorren had procured the horn, called a hoornblazen, and loaned it through Trifles and Folly. Long ago, it had been used to send messages across the Alps in the holiday season. I wondered after all the centuries and all the places he had lived what kind of holiday celebration Sorren preferred. The cow bell was featured in parades in certain parts of Germany.

  “They’re something different people don’t think about being part of Christmas traditions,” Alistair said, jolting me out of my thoughts.

  I spotted a strange figure on the other side of the room, and startled. Alistair noticed my reaction. “Ah, I see you’ve noticed Krampus. He’s part of our ‘Dark Side of Christmas’ display.” Alistair led the way. I hung back, reaching out with my senses to determine whether or not the exhibit was likely to knock me flat with a strong vision. I tamped down on my gift and decided that I needed to take a better look.

  My control is getting better; the displays don’t usually throw me into a vision or overwhelm my emotions the way they used to. I felt strengthened from all the positive, happy energy that practically radiated from the rest of the holiday display. But as I moved toward the Dark Side part of the exhibit, it felt as if a shadow fell across my mood.

  “This was part of Christmas?” I asked, staring at a man-sized costume of a horned creature with a face like a goat skull, and a body covered with dark, shaggy hair. One of the monster’s feet was deformed, and the other was a hoof. The hands ended in long, wicked claws. The costume was well made; it looked real.

  Alistair chuckled. “Say hello to Krampus,” he replied. “Some very strange, very old customs have survived from the Middle Ages in the Austrian Alps and on out into Eastern Europe. Krampus is kind of like Santa Claus’s evil twin. Saint Nicholas—the old school Santa—gave gifts to good children. Krampus beat bad children with sticks or carried them off in a sack.”

  “That’s a whole lot worse than getting a lump of coal in your stocking,” I said.

  “Actually, the idea of a lump of coal comes from the same set of legends. I guess that was getting off easy for a bad child,” Alistair answered.

  “So someone actually wore a costume like this at Christmas?” That certainly didn’t sound merry at all.

  Alistair nodded. “They still do, in some parts of Bavaria and Austria. There’s a big parade, and men dressed up like Krampus—and the Perchten, who are even uglier—walk through the streets. Some people say it scares off evil spirits, but some say they are the evil spirits.” He shrugged. “The cow bell you lent us would have been used in these parades. There are other creatures like this—Buttnmandl that look like walking straw men, Glockler with big elaborate lanterns for heads, and all the way over in Bulgaria, the Kukeri, which resemble the abominable snowman.”

  Waiting for Santa was starting to look rather tame compared to the alternatives. “Did they actually hold those kinds of parades in Charleston?” I asked.

  Alistair laughed. “I rather doubt it. I can’t imagine their dour Scottish and English neighbors looking favorably on the practice. But it is a part of the heritage of the people who settled here, so we wanted to represent it.”

  Redcaps hail f
rom Scotland and England. Alistair’s comment jostled my memory. “What do you have in the way of elves, pixies, that sort of thing?” I asked.

  Alistair gave me an odd look, but he’s used to strange questions from me. “We have a few. I think they’re over there.” He gave a nod of his head toward another display case, and led the way.

  Elves and pixies of every kind sat and crouched on the shelves in the case. Some were obviously old, others looked newly made. Statues, dolls made out of cloth, straw, crystal, wood, resin, and even origami-folded paper stared back at me through the glass. I leaned forward, careful not to touch anything, looking for a figure that looked like the Hearth Hob in the flyer.

  “Looking for something in particular?” Alistair asked.

  “Just fascinated,” I replied, although it was only half of the truth. “Some of these look pretty new.”

  “The Museum collects pieces from local artists as well as items with historic value,” Alistair answered. “We put out a call months ago to the Charleston art community for Christmas-themed art, and bought the ones we considered to be the best.”

  “You don’t happen to have something called a Hearth Hob, do you?” I was pretty sure I would recognize the ugly little statue, but I figured I’d ask, just in case.

  Alistair frowned, then shook his head. “Can’t say that it rings a bell. Do you recommend we get one?”

  “No!” My answer was sharper than I intended. I forced myself to laugh. It sounded fake, even to my ears. “I’m actually relieved. They’re a new fad over at the City Market—this year’s ‘pet rock.’ I don’t know much about them, but from what I’ve seen, they wouldn’t be up to the Museum’s standards.”

  Alistair nodded sagely. “It’s a fine line to walk between nostalgia and kitsch. I’m afraid it’s often in the eye of the beholder.”

  I hadn’t noticed the holiday-themed artwork on the exhibit walls before, but now I saw the paintings, tapestries, and photographs. Some of the work I recognized from other art shows; others were unfamiliar. “That’s got to be a hard job, picking the ‘best’ from all the submissions,” I said. “I imagine that’s hard to do tactfully.”

  Alistair rolled his eyes. “You can say that again. Artists are passionate about their work and quite dramatic about rejection. We actually had to have one young man physically removed because he was irate.”

  “Fortunately, we’ve never had someone get quite that upset when we turned down buying their heirlooms at the store,” I said, commiserating.

  “It got ugly,” Alistair said with a sigh. “I really don’t like that kind of confrontation.”

  None of the pixies or elves on the shelves gave me bad vibes. “Tell me more about the exhibit,” I said, knowing that would move Alistair into lecture mode and help me get my mind off the redcap problem. I spent the next fifteen minutes following him from one case or piece of artwork to another as he told me about the donors who loaned the piece or its history. It worked: I found my mood much improved by the time Alistair walked me to the door.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” he said with a smile. “I know your… abilities… make some of our exhibits difficult,” he said, careful with his words in case others were listening. “But we’re always pleased to see you when you can come.”

  I was glowing a little with residual Christmas cheer by the time I got to my little blue Mini Cooper in the parking lot. My phone buzzed, and I looked at it, sure Teag was wondering when I was coming back to the office. To my surprise, it was Maggie, our part-time helper. She was off today, so I really hadn’t expected to talk to her until tomorrow.

  “Cassidy?” Maggie asked. She sounded rattled, worrying me. “I hate to bother you, but could you make time to come over—soon?”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. Maggie never seems to have a care in the world. Now, I could hear fear in her voice.

  “I’m not sure,” Maggie said. “But I think there’s a poltergeist loose in my house.”

  I called Teag, and let him know that Maggie was having a supernatural emergency. Then I filled him in on the Hearth Hob problem. I still didn’t know what I was going up against.

  “It’s only half an hour until closing,” Teag said. “Why don’t you grab your things and go make sure Maggie’s safe, and I’ll be over right after I close up the store to help out. You shouldn’t go up against something by yourself.”

  Much as I hated to delay solving Maggie’s problem, Teag was right. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you there. And remind me to tell you about what I found out at the Market and Museum today.”

  I’m still new learning to use my touch magic for defense. At first, my visions usually knocked me flat on my ass, pulling me in and taking me over. Now, I’ve got a little better control, although a powerful object can still knock me for a loop. But I learned that I can draw on the magic and memories of an object, and with practice—and more than my share of life-threatening encounters with things that go bump in the night—I worked out some reliable ways to channel my magic to protect myself.

  Some of those “weapons,” like an old dog collar and a wooden spoon, I carried with me all the time. A few, like an old walking stick that used to belong to Sorren’s maker, Alard, I only used when the chips were down. I had a variety of other protective amulets, energy-cleansing gemstones, and handy weapons stashed in a bag in my trunk. Teag had his own set of weapons that worked well with his Weaver magic, and he was a champion martial artist. What we’d been able to dish out had been enough to beat the bad guys. So far.

  Maggie lived in a charming bungalow. I was surprised to see her waiting for me on the porch. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she exclaimed, running to meet me. Usually, nothing flusters Maggie, but she definitely looked spooked.

  “Why are you out here? It’s cold!”

  Maggie pulled her sweater closer around her. “I didn’t want to stay in there another moment by myself. I really think I goofed this time.”

  I led Maggie over to the porch swing and sat down with her. “How did you goof, and why do you think there’s a poltergeist in your house?”

  Maggie looked embarrassed. “I was down at the Market this morning looking for Christmas gifts. There was an artist I’d never seen before selling these adorably ugly little elf-things.”

  “Hearth Hobs,” I supplied.

  Maggie nodded. “I bought one for myself and brought it home. That’s when things started to get strange. I put it on the table, and when I went back, it wasn’t there.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t accidentally leave it somewhere else?” I asked. “I do that with my car keys all the time.”

  “So do I,” Maggie admitted. “But I know I left it on the table because I put it down with my purse. When I went back, the purse was right where I left it—but the hob wasn’t.”

  “Was anyone else with you?”

  Maggie shook her head. “Nope. Just me. Oh, and Biscuit.” I knew Biscuit was Maggie’s big yellow cat, so named because that’s exactly what she looks like when she curls up.

  “Then what?”

  “Well I went looking for that darn statue, and all of a sudden, Biscuit let out a god-awful caterwaul and comes streaking out of the living room like her tail was on fire,” Maggie said. “Bless my heart, I never heard a sound like that in my life. The next thing I know, Biscuit is under the couch and won’t come out for anything.”

  Cats and dogs have long been said to be more attuned to the supernatural. I’d had plenty of examples of that with my own little Maltese dog, Baxter.

  “Back up,” I said, remembering something important. “You bought the hob from the artist himself?”

  Maggie nodded. “He was an odd sort, but then again, he’s an artist,” she said with a shrug. “The workmanship was nice, all hand-made and hand-painted. But he seemed jumpy,” Maggie added. “Not very friendly.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “No. I didn’t think to—”

  Just then, there was a huge crash insid
e Maggie’s house. Her face paled. “Come on,” I said, grabbing her by the hand. “Let’s go take care of your ‘poltergeist.’”

  I let my athame slip down my sleeve into my right hand, and gave a jangle to the dog collar on my left wrist. The ghost of a big, solid Golden Retriever materialized beside me, my old dog Bo. Maggie took Bo’s ghost in stride and grabbed a rake from the porch. She opened the door, and a butter-colored streak tore past us as Biscuit made her escape.

  Something moved past me in a blur. I wheeled, but it was gone. Another crash came from elsewhere in the house. The sound of faint, demented laughter carried down the hall. I heard the scritch-scritch of claws on the hardwood floor, and caught a glimpse of something gray and white. Bo lowered his ghostly head, and his hackles raised. A low warning growl rumbled, and then he sprang into action.

  The crazed laughter became a yelp of panic. Bo was barking like he meant to rip that hob to shreds, and the hob seemed to believe it. I was ready when I heard Bo bounding back toward the hallway, and sent a blast of cold white energy from my athame across the doorway. I knew the magic wouldn’t hurt Bo, but it packed a wallop on anything solid.

  Lucky shot. I caught the hob and knocked him down the hallway like a bowling ball. Bo sprang after him, growling and snapping his teeth. The hob squealed and dashed off, heading back our way. I got in another blast from my athame, and this time, the energy picked the hob up and threw him down the hallway.

  Maggie wielded her rake like a pro, slamming the hob to the floor. Her jaw was set, and her eyes flashed. Bo came leaping down the hallway, sailed through the air and pounced on top of the rake, still growling. I thought I heard an oof from the hob as Bo landed. In life, Bo weighed over ninety pounds. I don’t know what that translates to as a ghost, but I’ve seen him take a bite out of more than one monster during a fight.

  The hob decided to fight his way out. Maggie was using both hands to hold him down with the rake. Bo lunged toward the trapped hob, slapping at him with his big paws. I heard the sound of plastic splitting and Maggie wrestled with the rake handle to keep the hob contained.