by Jane Tara
Everything was as it should be, so Calypso headed back upstairs and locked the cellar behind her.
“How do you like my little home?”
“It’s strange, funny, slightly wild, and gorgeous … just like its owner.”
Taran was full of perfect comebacks. “I’ll be taking you somewhere later tonight, so we should organize dinner now.”
“I’m easy. And always hungry.”
Calypso disappeared outside and returned with a handful of mushrooms, tomatoes and some basil. “I’ll throw these into pasta.”
“Sounds good.” Taran glanced at the mushrooms. “They’re not magic shrooms are they?”
“You’re not much of a country boy are you?”
“I love the country – for weekends away.”
“What is a Pagan without a patch of land?”
“I have a patch of land. It’s called Central Park.”
Calypso began to slice the mushrooms. “Do you like mushrooms?”
“I’m very fond of store-bought ones. Last time someone fed me handpicked mushrooms I spent ten hours sure I was melting.”
Calypso burst out laughing. “That’s awful. Don’t worry, these are fine, I promise.” She passed Taran a bottle of wine. “Can’t be sure about this wine though. Will you open it for me?”
Taran read the label. “Plum wine, brewed by Calypso. Fabulous. I think I had this little drop last time I ate at Per Se.” He popped the cork and poured them both a glass.
“All the good restaurants stock my wine.”
“Hope it’s not like the wine you gave me in Paris. That was right up there with some camel urine I drank in Turkey.”
“I’ve kissed a mouth that has tasted camel urine?”
“The camel urine was mouthwatering compared to that.”
Calypso swatted him with a tea towel. “Go on, drink it.”
“I’m too scared.” He began to laugh and laugh. The more he laughed, the harder Calypso laughed.
“You are so rude,” Calypso squealed. “Only an American would be so bloody rude.”
“And only a Brit would bottle her own plum wine.” Taran took a sip. And then another. “Holy crap, this is amazing.”
Calypso grinned. “You should try my apple wine.”
Taran tossed back the rest of the glass. “You have a talent.” He pulled her into his arms and gave her a kiss.
Calypso sighed. “You think that’s going to make up for your lack of manners?”
“I have a feeling it will,” he said, kissing her again.
Calypso turned the gas off. “I’ll need more than a kiss.” She laughed and ran upstairs, tossing her T-shirt off as she went.
Taran followed a trail of clothes up the sloping stairs, pausing at the bedroom door where Calypso’s black lace knickers lay discarded.
“I’m waiting,” she called.
Taran turned and stared at her, already under the covers in the old bed. She wasn’t waiting for long. He tore his clothes off and joined her. The mattress sank, and they both rolled, laughing, into the middle.
“Oh shit! New bed?”
“Family heirloom. I doubt the mattress has been changed in over a hundred years.”
“So it’s not IKEA then?”
“No.” Calypso was laughing again.
Taran stared down at her. “I love it when you laugh.”
“I love that you make me laugh.”
The tips of their noses touched briefly, and then they kissed. He slid into her, slow, sensuous strokes, as they stared deep into each other’s eyes, and breathed in each other’s sighs. The old bed creaked and squeaked as it had many times over the last century, when lovers met.
*
Afterwards, still naked, they returned to the kitchen and finished making dinner. Calypso pulled out a bottle of Captain Morgan’s Coconut Rum and a couple of tall glasses, which she filled with ice. She poured an even mix of rum, orange juice and pineapple juice into each glass. “This is like a kick in the head.”
Taran gave Calypso a quick pat on the backside. “I need one to wake me up. All I want to do is sleep after that little session.” Taran took a swig of his drink. “Love it. What is it?”
“Called a Mike Tai. A friend of mine came up with it. It’s his version of the Mai Tai.”
Taran took another mouthful.
“Go easy there, big boy. It tastes harmless, but it can sneak up on you.”
Calypso served up two heaped bowls of pasta and led Taran toward the dining room, but froze as she reached the door.
“What’s up, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Look.”
Taran followed Calypso’s stare to the opposite doorway and nearly dropped his glass. Floating there, and still looking rather annoyed, was Enid.
“What are you doing here, Enid?” Calypso asked gently. “You’ve never left the pub before.”
“I told you, I’m keeping an eye on you two.” And with that, she vanished.
Taran and Calypso stared at each other in amazement.
“It’s almost enough to put me off ever having sex with you again,” Taran said in mock horror.
“Should we put some clothes on?”
“She’s already seen it all now.” Taran pulled out a chair for Calypso. “Drink your Mike Tai. From the sounds of it, a few more sips and we won’t care about clothes anyway.”
Chapter Eighteen
Passionflower is an effective sleep aid
A few hours later, Calypso and Taran did get dressed and head outside. They wandered down a small lane and out onto the road. The night air was still and fresh. At first, Taran was overwhelmed by the eerie quiet. But as he relaxed, the countryside began to sing to him. Crickets chirped. The shriek of an unfamiliar bird occasionally broke the silence. Their footsteps crunched on gravel. They walked this way for a long time, at ease with each other, not needing to speak. Finally, Calypso climbed over a fence into a field. “Follow me.”
“Like I have an option,” Taran whispered. “I’d probably be attacked by werewolves or something if I went off alone.”
“You’re such a city boy.” Calypso giggled.
“I’ve read about the English countryside.”
“Oh please … there are no werewolves here. None have been spotted for at least five years.”
“Don’t suppose I can talk you into holding my hand?”
Calypso stopped and stared at him. “Listen, you big baby, go home if you’re not enjoying yourself.”
Taran gave her a wink. “So I guess a shag is out of the question.”
Calypso gave him a lazy smile. “I’d say it could be arranged.”
“Cool. I’m liking the country more each second.”
Calypso turned and headed down the path. “But first I have some work to do.”
Taran had grown up around magic so could feel the air thickening as they walked along the path.
Calypso pointed out some buildings. “That’s the Hermitage. It’s open to the public.”
“Are we trespassing?” asked Taran.
“No. I’ve got permission to come and go as I need. I asked the owners out of respect, but really, it’s the Fey folk who guard this place. And they know me.”
Taran could just make out a small chapel, surrounded by trees.
“St. Nectan’s,” Calypso explained.
They walked deep into the woods.
“I can’t see a thing. We should have brought a torch.”
“Won’t need one soon,” Calypso called over her shoulder.
They continued farther into the woods. Ferns and flowers rustled around their feet. Echoed whispers chimed through the darkness.
“She’s back.”
“She’s here.”
“Welcome, Calypso.”
Suddenly lights darted before them. Golden orbs floated around them, illuminating the way. Taran heard a symphony, and realized it was the sound of flowing water, melodic as it descended. Eventually they stepped into Tintagel’s natural gra
il, St. Nectan’s waterfall.
“This is one of the most powerful sites in Great Britain,” whispered Calypso. “It’s a sacred well, and guarded by the Fey folk … as you can see.”
Taran would have to be blind to miss the hundreds of orbs that lit the sky. Some floated, some perched on branches, some came over for a closer look, allowing Taran a glimpse of the exquisite faces within the glowing orb.
“Hello, Taran,” one said.
“You know my name?”
“Of course we know you,” she sighed, and a thousand giggles tinkled through the air, making Taran feel that he’d just missed a joke.
“This is incredible, Cal.”
The trees beside them rustled and parted and suddenly a handsome half man, half goat stood before them.
“Welcome, Calypso. We are honored to have you here again.”
“The honor is always mine, Adelein,” she said, bowing her head slightly. “This is my friend, Taran.”
“Raised in magic. Yes, we know him and welcome him.”
Taran and Calypso glanced at each other, but neither asked Adelein what he meant, as one never asked a faun, especially one of royal blood, personal questions. Any information they received would be offered freely, but without prodding.
Adelein’s voice was deep and as smooth as treacle. “Did you bring them?”
Calypso pulled the jam jar from her backpack and handed it to Adelein, who tucked it protectively under his arm. Then he turned his attention back to Calypso. “Will you be harvesting tonight?”
“Yes. I’d like some moly.”
“Certainly. Our supplies have picked up recently, so there’s plenty for you, friend.” Adelein’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Tell me, how is your sister?”
“I haven’t seen her all week … so ah … to my knowledge … well – why?”
Adelein’s nostrils flared slightly. “I need you to relay a message from the guardians.”
“Of course,” said Calypso.
“She wasn’t forgotten. There is an inheritance. She is part of a lineage that will unfold but first she must find the missing piece.”
“Missing piece?”
“Of the puzzle.”
Calypso looked puzzled. Taran could tell she was desperate to ask more questions. But he also knew she wouldn’t test the faun’s patience. Calypso understood the forest codes.
“Cane Cata Juel.”
Calypso repeated slowly. “Cane Cata Juel?”
“Correct.” Adelein tilted his head slightly to one side. “There is another question you wish to ask.” He looked slightly annoyed.
“You mean about my sister?”
“About your gift,” he snapped.
Calypso glanced at Taran.
“It’s temporary,” Adelein assured her. “And hereditary. Consider when this has happened before.” The faun stamped one of his hooves into the forest floor. He was done. “Take care, Calypso. And do not let the past ruin the future.” With a curt nod to Taran, Adelein stepped behind a tree and vanished.
“‘Do not let the past ruin the future’?” hissed Calypso. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Sounded pretty clear to me.” Taran chuckled.
Calypso glared at him. “Come on, let’s go pick some moly.”
Taran watched as she climbed over some rocks. “What was he talking about before? What’s ‘temporary’?”
“No idea,” said Calypso. Suddenly, her mood lifted. “Found it!”
The moly was located where most things magical and mythical are: right before their eyes. Using small clippers, Calypso harvested only as much as she needed, and then thanked the sentinels who watched over the precious herb – or holy moly as she fondly called it.
She made her way carefully around the rocks to the edge of the pool and snipped a piece of each of the Jubula hutchinsaie and Trichocolea tromentallo liverworts and removed small quantities of moss. Then she stored them all safely in her bag and returned to Taran, who’d been watching her from a comfy rock.
“I’m amazed you brought me here,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s such an important place. Not the type of place you’d bring just anyone to.”
“You’re not just anyone, Taran.”
“Then you need to listen to Adelein. If you trust me enough to bring to this place, you should trust me enough to allow me into other places.”
Taran reached over and pulled her into him. They stared into each other’s eyes, their breath mingling.
“Trust me,” he whispered.
“I do trust you, Taran. It’s love I don’t trust.”
“Surely one negative experience can’t have scarred you that badly,” he snapped, impatient. “Everyone is hurt by love at some stage. Kelly McManus was my first great love and she dumped me for Norman Normans. Imagine being dumped for a guy called Norman Normans?”
Calypso smiled grudgingly. “That’s awful. How old were you?”
“Eight. But age is irrelevant in matters of the heart.” Taran lifted her chin toward him. “What was so great about him that you can’t let go? Tell me.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not the place to—”
“Actually this is the perfect place. Tell me.”
Calypso’s eyes flashed angrily. “Scott was special. He was funny and kind … and despite the fact that he was really gorgeous, I never once saw him flirt with another woman. He was loyal. He was my best friend, and I trusted him.”
“Until he dumped you.”
Calypso sighed. “Scott didn’t dump me, Taran. Scott died.”
Chapter Nineteen
Carry fresh borage blossoms for courage
Calypso found the Australian summer stifling. Normally heat didn’t bother her, but the harsh sun was relentless and seemed to bite at her fair skin. Not that she held it against Australia; she was quite fond of the country that had produced the love of her life. Scott had taken her home to meet his parents soon after they met, and annually ever since. She adored the people, the landscape and the oddly lilting language. But the middle of summer could be cruel.
Scott didn’t seem to notice. He romped around like an overgrown puppy, without a shirt or a hat. He caught up with friends and family, drank beer, played cricket, surfed and swam. He adored being home, but found it equally easy to leave. There was a great big world out there that Scott fully intended to explore. And once he was done, perhaps then he’d return home to Cronulla. With Calypso, of course. There was no future without Callie.
Scott reached over and wiped a trail of perspiration from Calypso’s forehead. “My poor sweetie, all hot and bothered. Wilting away like an English rose.”
“This is worse than Mumbai.”
“That’s because you refused to leave the air-conditioned hotel in Mumbai,” Scott reminded her. “Come with me, baby.”
He led her back inside his parents’ house. They were both at work and not due home for hours. He drew the curtains and switched on the air conditioner, something his parents rarely did. Then he grabbed a cotton sheet and threw it on the lounge-room floor. Moments later, they were both naked, sprawled across the sheet, sipping ice-cold beers.
“That’s better,” sighed Calypso. “I was so hot.”
“You’re still hot.” Scott grinned, placing his beer on the coffee table and reaching for her.
They lie on their sides for a while, staring into each other’s eyes. Time passed, meaningless, as it had been since the first moment they met in Berlin. He reached out and ran a finger across her breast and she shivered. She’d never tire of his touch. And then he drew her toward him, the sweat on their skin dry now, cool.
He breathed her in, the faint smell of sunscreen lingering on her skin, her hair the scent of fresh vanilla. Their lips met, parted, and they dissolved into each other. Her hands slid around his back and she guided him to her, into her. Home. It was their home, the only one either of them needed.
Slow, languid strokes, loving
words whispered, sighs that became more heated, faster, more urgent, her throaty moans as she climaxed and sent him toppling over the edge.
They clung to each other for a long time afterwards. Calypso sobbed, something she hadn’t done for a long time. Scott held her tightly and stroked her hair, promising to always, always love her. The intensity of her emotions surprised her, but it wasn’t until later that she wondered if she knew, on some level, that it would be the last time she made love to her beautiful man.
And then they heard the ice-cream truck in the distance. Scott jumped up and threw on his shorts.
“Great timing! What flavor do you want?”
“Strawberry.”
“Of course. Strawberry for my strawberry mop-top.” He grabbed his wallet and rushed out the door.
Calypso dressed slowly, in her shorts and singlet top, and followed him out the front. She watched from the driveway as he paid the ice-cream guy and took the ice creams. She saw the other car careen carelessly around the corner, too fast for the suburban street. She called out to Scott, but it was only later she realized the call never reached her lips. He stepped out. The car skidded – too late. A sickening thud echoed through the street; through her heart and soul and every move she’d made since. She ran, slow motion, stuck in a substance similar to hair gel, unable to move quickly or hear clearly. As much as she tried she couldn’t speed up the movie she was watching. She reached for him, held him, begged him not to leave her, whispered words, meaningless words, pacts and bribes with the gods if only he’d stay.
He didn’t.
He mumbled his last words … and then she heard a scream, her own high-pitched, bloodcurdling scream that resonated throughout the universe. It wasn’t until a doctor arrived and stuck a needle in her arm that the scream stopped.
*
Calypso sighed, back in the forest now, surrounded by the Fey folk who had helped her through her initial grief. They already knew the story, but were there once again while she shared it with Taran.
Taran’s eyes were filled with horror and sadness. “I’m an ass, Calypso. Everything I said …”