by Eric Wilder
“I’ll buy you one if you drink it,” he said.
He laughed when I said, “Quit tempting me. You’re supposed to be a man of God, and not the Devil.”
Flashing neon illuminated the fog with an eerie glow, providing all the atmosphere anyone could need. The spooks, vampires, ghosts, and goblins on both sides of the street only added to that illusion.
“There’s a witch,” Abba said. “Wonder if it’s the one we’re looking for.”
“That young lady is dressed in the popular manner in which we perceive a witch. The reality, I assure you, is quite different.”
“You keep saying that,” she said. “How so?”
“If we find the witch that burned Father Fred’s compound, you will understand fully. Meanwhile, that’s our destination up ahead.”
Chapter 15
How Rafael had managed to differentiate the shop from all the others, we’d passed was a mystery to me. Since the teeshirts and cheesy souvenirs in the front of the establishment appeared no different, it gave me cause to wonder if he was too drunk to remember the shop’s location. I needn’t have worried.
A starkly dressed young woman behind a counter spanning the back wall greeted us with a frown and a nod. Her floor-length dress matched the long hair touching her bare shoulders: black with lime green highlights. A colorful tattoo, partially hidden behind a single gold earring, decorated her neck. From her nose, a matching circular ring dangled.
“Help you?” she said.
“I was here about a year ago,” Rafael said. “You had a knife display.”
“Still do. Far end of the cabinet,” she said.
“I’m looking for something in particular: a Gothic dagger that possibly possesses magical powers.”
The young woman’s expression remained impassive. “All knives have magical powers. Some more than others.”
Rafael waited for her to elucidate on her comment. When she didn’t, he brushed off her lack of enthusiasm and began studying the cutlery housed in the far end of the display.
I became suddenly aware of background music being piped into the room through hidden speakers. Had the volume been loud, the discordant, head-banging song performed by Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols might have seemed out of place. Instead, along with the commingled odors of scented candles and Nag Champa incense, it helped complete the little shop’s illusion of dark mystery.
Rafael didn’t seem to notice, his rapt interest focused on the display cabinet. Abba and I joined him. He soon returned his attention to the young woman.
“We brought a dagger with us. Would you mind taking a look at it?”
Retrieving the knife from the inner pocket of his parka, he handed it over the counter to the woman. Her expression never changed as she hefted the dagger and then handed it back to him.
“Very nice,” she said.
“Can you tell us anything about it?” he asked.
“Such as?”
“Who is the person that crafted it?”
She stared at him for what seemed like thirty seconds before answering.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you that information.”
“Why not?”
“My shop is unique. Except for the teeshirts and souvenirs in front, you won’t find the knives and swords we have here anywhere in New Orleans. Or, for that matter, anyplace else in the world. If you want to purchase a knife or dagger from this shop, then I’ll be happy to help you. It’s our policy not to give out the names of the artists and craftsmen that supply us.”
“We don’t want to buy anything from that person, we simply want to ask him or her a question about the dagger I showed you.”
The young woman’s frown and arms clutched tightly around her chest shouted volumes that she wasn’t impressed. Glancing on the wall behind her, I saw something that jogged my memory. The color of the woman’s eyes and the shape of her ears also seemed vaguely familiar. Finally, it came to me.
“Are you Cyn Czarnecki?”
She stopped staring at Rafael and glanced around as if noticing me for the first time.
“Do I know you?”
“When I was much younger, I used to visit your father’s shop on Royal.”
“Oh?” she said.
“From what I remember, your dad was a collector of anything and everything that had to do with New Orleans.”
“You have a good memory. My father’s shop closed more than twenty years ago.”
“You still have the sign,” I said.
She glanced behind her at the old sign on the wall that said, Antique Guns & Swords, and smiled for the first time.
“Your memory is more than good, it’s remarkable,” she said. “I couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years old. How did you recognize me?”
“Your eyes,” I said. “While our dads were pouring over the cutlery, I was looking at your eyes. I remember thinking how exotic they looked. They are still just as mesmerizing as I remember.”
Though Cyn Czarnecki tried not to blush, she failed miserably.
“That’s all very interesting,” she said when she regained her composure. “The fact remains I don’t give out the names of our artisans.”
“Is he your husband?” I asked.
“How did you know that?”
“Just a guess,” I said. “The dagger Rafael showed you, as you already know, is valuable. We’d like to return it to its rightful owner. We only wish to ask your husband who that person is and how we might find them.”
“Is the dagger linked to a crime?”
“Of course not. If we thought it was, we’d have gone to the police instead of here.”
She glanced around at the grandfather clock that was just beginning to chime.
“My night manager is running late. She’ll be here any minute to relieve me. Do you have a car?”
“We've parked a few blocks away,” I said.
“Wait for me at the corner of Claiborne and Esplanade. Follow me when I drive past.”
“How will we know it’s you?” I asked.
“I drive an old, black Bentley that’s very recognizable. When you pull in behind me, flash your lights twice, so I’ll know it’s you. I’ll take you to my husband’s blacksmith shop.”
The odor of incense and the reedy voice of Sid Vicious dissolved away as we exited to the Bourbon Street sidewalk. Ground fog, crowd noise and a strong smell of stale beer, strong pot, urine, and vomit replaced it. When we reached the dark side street where Rafael had abandoned the wine, we realized that he’d been wrong. The wine was still in the bottle as when he’d left it. They started back in on the wine on the way back to the Aztek. Twenty minutes passed as we waited for Cyn Czarnecki.
“Hope she didn’t blow us off,” Abba said.
“If she did, we’ll pay her another visit tomorrow,” I said.
“How in the world did you remember her after twenty years?” Rafael asked.
“When I saw the old sign behind the counter, it reminded me of her father’s shop.”
“You sounded more interested in her than the knives her father sold,” Abba said.
“I was a teenager,” I said. “Girls were my number one interest.”
“Remind me to call bullshit next time you compliment me,” she said.
“It’s still amazing to me that you’d remember her after twenty years,” Rafael said.
“I told you, Padre, I never forget a face.”
“How did you know she was married? She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Even so, how did you guess her husband was the person that made the dagger?”
“Body language. She seemed like someone interested in signs and symbols. She wears her wedding ring on her middle finger. When I complimented her, she fidgeted with the ring. She did it again when I asked her about the person that made the dagger.”
They stared at me as if I were an alien from another planet. There was little traffic on Claiborne and Abba glanced in the mirror.
“I’m still confused,�
�� she said. “Why did she suddenly change her mind and agree to take us to her house?”
“She may dress like a Goth, but she’s born and raised a New Orleans girl. She recognized me. Her dad did business with my dad. They trusted each other, and now she trusts me. Simple as that,” I said.
“Simple, huh?” Rafael said. “When you die, they should save your brain for research purposes because I’ve never met a person that reasons the way you do.”
“Is that a compliment or a complaint?”
“Both,” he said.
Rafael raked his hand through his thinning hair, and Abba shook her head before they grew silent and worked on polishing off the last of the wine. Twenty more minutes elapsed before a black Bentley passed slowly on Claiborne. The vanity tag on the bumper of the old but elegant Bentley said, Dagger Lady. Abba pulled in behind her, flashed her lights twice, and then followed her up Claiborne.
Dagger Lady soon turned south into the Faubourg Marigny district and continued almost to the river. Palm trees in front of the house imparted a Caribbean flavor to the old Creole cottage. Though the night was foggy and mostly starless, I could see the house had a fresh coat of blue paint that contrasted Nawlin’s style with its yellow shutters. Abba parked the Aztek on the street, and we followed Cyn Czarnecki inside.
The house was nothing like I had suspected, more like something out of 1,001 Arabian Nights. Multicolored, diaphanous sheets draped from the ceiling, the smell of burning incense pleasant and almost enough to cover the faint odor of mold that couldn’t be eradicated from the wooden walls. Music from a local oldies station emanated from an antique console radio in the corner. Cyn smiled when she saw me looking,
“We keep it on when we’re away. Though we’ve never had a problem with break-ins, I believe the music might confuse thieves if they did get into the house.”
“Probably a good idea,” I said. “If you like eighties-vintage music, that is.”
She nodded. “I hate it. The station only has about twenty-five songs on its playlist, and it gets monotonous. When I’m home, I turn it off and play my own music, at least until I go to bed.”
“And your husband?” Abba said.
“He isn’t into music. Come to think of it, we have so little in common I don’t know what keeps us together, except that I love him and he loves me,” she said, turning off the radio and replacing the eighties music with reggae.
“No Sex Pistols?” I asked.
“Our customers at the shop like it,” she said. “Guess it puts them in the right mood to buy a knife. When I’m home, I prefer Bob Marley. Have a seat, and I’ll get us something to drink.”
A bong and other drug paraphernalia sat on the stained and burned coffee table in front of the threadbare couch where we sat. Cyn returned with a bottle of Southern Comfort, an ice bucket, and five tumblers.
“My dear, you were reading my mind,” Rafael said.
“I don’t need a glass. I don’t drink,” I said. “At least not anymore.”
She lit up a joint, took a hit and handed it to me. “Puff of pot?”
“I’m fine,” I said, passing the joint to Abba without partaking.
The smell of pot permeated the room as Cyn went to the kitchen, returning with a chilled bottle of mineral water.
“Skunkweed,” she said. “Very potent.”
“Is your husband here?” Rafael asked.
“His blacksmith shop is in the backyard. He’d keep the fire stoked twenty-four hours a day if I’d let him. I’ll get him.”
“Mind if I go with you?”
She nodded, took another puff from the joint, poured herself a shot of Southern Comfort over ice and then started for the back door. Grabbing the bottle of mineral water, I followed her.
Nothing but vacant lots occupied the land behind Cyn’s house.
“Katrina did the trick on many of the houses and buildings closest to the river,” she said. “Makes for a wonderful view and plenty of privacy.”
“I love it. It’s beautiful out here.”
“We love it, too. Whenever I can get Rory to stop working for awhile, we sit in the swing on our back porch and watch the lights across the river as the sun goes down.”
As if on cue, a tanker appeared through the gloom, its running lights casting an eerie glow on the fog spilling over its bow. It wasn’t the only peculiar thing I saw.
Red and orange flames flashed from the open windows and the large door of her husband’s smithy, the discernible clang of metal resonating along with the sound of jazz coming from a music venue not far away. A man with a hammer was pounding red-glowing metal against the shop’s anvil. He looked up and smiled when Cyn called his name.
“It’s late,” she said. “We have visitors, and it’s time to stop for the night and come inside.”
Chapter 16
I’d returned to the couch, sitting by Abba and Rafael when Cyn’s husband appeared in the kitchen door. I had no idea how big he was until I saw him framed in the doorway.
Big was an understatement. He was massive. He had on a pair of steel-toed army boots with green argyle socks sticking out the top, a red kilt and nothing else. Though he didn’t have the defined musculature of a bodybuilder, he looked powerful enough to tear down a wall with his bare hands. Cyn was grinning when she tried and failed to put both of her hands around his upper arm.
“This is Rory. He’s my big boy, and I do mean big.”
Rory’s face was black with soot, and his teeth flashed when he smiled. He had a full growth of wiry beard and even wilder brown hair. When he kissed his wife, she made a face and pushed him away.
“You stink,” she said. “Take a shower and change out of that awful kilt.”
“Hello, everyone,” he said with a wave. “I won’t be long.”
Rory’s grin never disappeared as he kissed Cyn again before disappearing into another room.
“I think your husband could easily make it as a professional wrestler,” Rafael said as Cyn topped up his tumbler with ice and more Southern Comfort.
“My guess is the other wrestlers would be afraid to get in the ring with him,” she said. “I saw him lift the front end of a Chevy off the ground once. He’s a pussycat, though I have little doubt he could hurt someone if he tried.”
I raised my hand. “Not I. Rory wouldn’t have to try very hard. Is he Scottish?”
“What gave you your first clue?” she asked, barely able to keep a straight face.
“The kilt, though it was his brogue that gave him away.”
“He was born in Glasgow. His parents moved here when he was a child. He can’t seem to lose the brogue even though you’d think he was a Cajun the way he likes crawfish and gumbo. His last name . . . Our last name is Boyd.”
Rory soon joined us. “I’m Rory. Welcome to Boyd Castle,” he said, his voice deep and his brogue thick.
It made me wonder if, like Bertram, he heightened his accent around people he’d just met. Cyn waited until he’d shaken our hands, then invited us to have dinner with them. I was starved and apparently so were Abba and Rafael, all of us happy to oblige her.
We were soon sitting around their circular kitchen table eating gumbo and French bread. Abba wiped her mouth with a big napkin when she’d finished her last bite.
“Cyn, your gumbo is wonderful,” she said.
“The best,” I said.
“Count me in on that accolade,” Rafael said.
“I know you're just nice. Doesn’t matter because I love compliments,” she said. “Anyone save room for key lime pie?”
We waited until Rory had finished his third bowl of gumbo, and then all had a slice of pie. Along with the others, Rory was drinking Southern Comfort. Though I didn’t ask her to, Cyn brewed a pot of strong Creole coffee and chicory especially for me. Our appetites sated, we returned to the comfortable couch in the living room.
“They are here to ask you about a dagger you made,” Cyn said.
Rafael fished around inside his parka, pro
ducing the beautiful piece of cutlery, and then handed it to Rory.
Rory recognized it immediately. “Where did you get this?” he asked.
“We didn’t steal it if that’s what you mean,” I said. “We think it belongs to a person we believe to be a witch. We wish to return it to her.”
Rory’s dark eyes blazed a hole through me as he stared for a very long moment before responding to what I’d told him. When I started to say something, he waved his palm and shook his head.
“This is Exethelon. It took me seven days to craft. There’s not another blade on earth like it. It has magical powers, and even its name has some unknown, magical meaning.”
He smiled at Rafael’s next comment. “Cyn told us all knives have powers.”
“Some more than others,” he said. “Usually, the power they have is dependent upon the kiln in which they are fired and the expertise of the smithy. That is not the situation with this blade.”
“Then please tell us what the situation is,” Rafael said.
“No dagger has more power than Exethelon. You said you believe the owner to be a witch. She is much more than that. She is a powerful sorceress.”
He glanced at each of us to see if we were smiling. None of us were. Rafael was the first to speak.
“You say this dagger you call Exethelon is magic. It’s been in my possession for several hours now, and I’ve had no indication of its magical powers.”
“Did the sorceress give you this dagger?”
Cyn gasped when Rafael said, “We found it deeply buried in the heart of a dead man.”
Rory’s massive chest swelled when he inhaled before replying.
“Then the dagger served its purpose. It no longer belongs to the sorceress.”
“To whom does it belong?” Rafael asked.
“The one who pulled it from the dead man’s heart. Do you believe in destiny?”
“I’m a Catholic priest,” Rafael said. “Of course I do.”
“Then believe this. The person that pulled the dagger from the dead man’s heart was predestined to do so. Though I have no idea what that reason is, I do know it must remain in that person’s possession; at least until destiny deems it’s time to pass it to another.”