by Kildare
The cottage was small, with a thatched roof. Smoke puffed from a chimney. Orange light spilled out into the darkness through little windows. He withdrew Anbhás and cautiously pushed open the door. He stepped inside, checked behind the door, and seeing no one, closed it again. The ceiling was no more than five feet in height and he had to hunch to avoid banging his head. He called out as he made his way across the room. No one responded. A fire crackled and snapped inside the hearth. Someone had been here recently. He checked the two doors in the back leading into other rooms and both were empty.
Who lived here? Better not be dwarves. This whole series of events had started because of the trickery of dwarves. If the fire still burned, they had to be coming back. Whoever they were, he hoped they wouldn’t mind his intrusion.
He walked to a table in the front and was considering whether the chairs could bear his weight when he heard a noise. Someone was outside. Someone was coming.
V
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13
Cillian darted behind the door and waited. The door opened and a little man entered, no taller than three feet. Before the newcomer could react, Cillian grabbed hold of his coat and lifted him off his feet. The leprechaun shrieked in Gaelic, “Ná déan aon dochar dom.” Don’t harm me.
The leprechaun wore a red coat, green vest, white breeches, and a cone hat, crumpled and without brim. Round, ruddy cheeks were edged by a long, copper beard. The little sprite was a leprechaun, not the American stereotype, but the real variety attested to in the old myths and fairytales of Ireland.
Cillian pointed the tip of the sword at the leprechaun’s chest, and asked in Gaelic, “What’s your life worth to you?”
Cillian could discern from the leprechaun’s changing expressions that he was locked in an internal struggle to come up with an answer. Finally, he sputtered, “I have gold.”
“I don’t want your gold.”
“What then?”
“Information.”
“Tell the Dread Queen I don’t know anything,” the leprechaun pleaded. “I swear I don’t.”
Cillian decided to play along with the leprechaun’s protest. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“A leprechaun never violates an oath. We always keep our word. Always.”
Cillian loosened his grip on the leprechaun’s coat.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Gobán.”
“Gobán, I’m Cillian. If I release you, do you swear that you won’t disappear or injure me? I mean you no harm. I swear that to you.”
“I swear it.”
Cillian released him and walked over to the table, never taking his eyes off Gobán. Oath or no oath, he didn’t trust the little sprite. Four chairs were pushed under the table, but he doubted they could bear his weight. The table looked sturdy enough. He lowered himself slowly onto a corner, testing the table’s integrity. It held and he settled the rest of his weight down.
The leprechaun retrieved a lamp from a cupboard, lit it, and set it on the table. Between the lamp and the fireplace, everything in the room danced, swayed by the flickering lights, the shadows expanding and retreating. There was something mystical, indescribable, in the back and forth tug of light and darkness.
“You’re the Imperator’s champion. I’ve heard of you, though I know you’re not one of the Tuath Dé. How did you find my house?” The leprechaun sat down on a chair across from Cillian. His face showed no friendliness.
Cillian suppressed a smile. He had threatened him with a sword. “I was following a will-o’-the-wisp. It led me here. There was a man in a cloak and a broad hat. Might’ve had a cane, too. Any idea who that could be?”
Gobán furrowed his fuzzy eyebrows and frowned. “A man in a cloak? How could I not recognize such a detailed description?”
“No need for sarcasm. I never got a good look, but I think he led me here.”
Gobán squinted. “What are you wearing around your neck?”
Cillian pulled out the pendant hanging around his neck. “It’s just a stone.”
“That’s no ordinary amulet. That’s the work of the Tuath Dé. Without it, you couldn’t see or find this cottage. They are exceedingly rare. Who are you that they gave you one of their portal amulets?”
Cillian fingered the edges of the stone. What was a portal amulet? “It was given to me by a man a long time ago. He said it’d bring me good luck.”
“An understatement. Men would trade their kingdoms for that little pendant. Wars have been fought for less. Its possessor can cross into the immortal lands and become immortal, so long as the wearer doesn’t part with it. But no mortal man gave that gift to you. They don’t easily part with such gifts. If I could, I’d take it from you myself.”
“So why don’t you?”
“I couldn’t without harming you, which I’ve sworn not to do. As I said, leprechauns never break their vows. Still, you shouldn’t have that amulet. No good will come to you. If the Tuath Dé learn you possess it, they’ll hunt you down and retrieve it. You’d be lucky if they didn’t kill you. Steer clear of their lands.”
“Too late. I’ve already passed through their territory.”
Gobán sat up, surprise in his face. “And they didn’t try to seize it?”
“They let me stroll right through. Didn’t even attempt to stop me.”
“You’ve been hiding something from me. Something else. The Tuath Dé don’t allow strangers into their lands.”
Cillian leaned down to the leprechaun. “I released Loki.”
“Ah, then you are the Earthling.”
“You know of this?”
“Of course. Everyone knows about Loki’s escape. He’s been here.”
“Been where? This cottage?”
Gobán snorted. “Not this cottage. He cares nothing of me. He’s been to this world. Because of you, I imagine. What is it that he wants with you? I see nothing special.”
Cillian smirked at the insult. “I’m forced to agree. I can’t think of any reason he’s interested in me, either. Yet, he is. Many have become interested in me.”
“Such as?”
“The archangels.”
Gobán looked like he had tasted something bitter. “The ardaingeal,” he scoffed. “The Tuath Dé are obnoxious enough. The ardaingeal are unbearable. Beware of them, too. They aren’t to be trusted.”
“You leprechauns don’t have such a great reputation yourselves.”
A sly smile spread across the leprechaun’s red cheeks. “It’s a reputation we’ve earned. We have a taste for the macabre. I don’t hide what I am. Who I am. Can the angels say the same? Can you?”
Cillian ignored the question. “How does this amulet allow me to see you?”
“That amulet allows you to cross over into the immortal lands, which is where you are now. The will-o’-the-wisp that you followed led you through a pair of portal stones standing near here. That’s where you entered this world. Without the amulet, you would’ve stayed on your side when you passed through the portal stones. The amulet doesn’t allow you to see me, being on the same side as me allows you to see me. If I chose to cross over to the mortal side, I’d vanish from your sight. This I’d do if I hadn’t sworn not to.”
“You spoke of a queen earlier. An Bhanríon Fhíochmhar. Why did you think I was involved with her?”
“The Dread Queen has harassed me in the past. You should also be afraid of her. She has a price on your head.”
“Why would she have a price on my head?”
“I assume she wants to capture you for a ransom. You could be worth a handsome reward to the right person.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever heard of her.”
Gobán lowered his tone. “Then be warned. She’s extremely dangerous. Even the Tuath Dé fear her conjuring.”
“Do you fear her?”
“I’d be a fool and not long in this life if I didn’t.”
“Could she be working with Loki?”
&nb
sp; “Doubtful they are working together. Loki is more of a loner, and the Queen isn’t one to swear subservience to another. Though it’s quite possible he’s providing her with information.”
More twists in an already knotted tale. How was Cillian expected to keep track of all this information, all the parties interested in him, and of varying intent? His only real option was to trust no one.
“Do you intend to spend the night here?” Gobán asked.
“I don’t trust you enough to close my eyes for that long. If nothing else, I’ll probably wake up alone, you and the cottage gone, and me God knows where. Neither of us are foolish enough to believe that a new friendship has formed. I’m not spending a night here. I’ll risk the danger of the woods.”
“There’s another option.”
“Which is?”
The leprechaun turned his gaze toward an iron safe standing in the corner of the room. “Secret paths.” He beckoned Cillian to follow, fished a key out of his breast pocket, inserted it into the safe’s lock, and popped it open. It was empty within. He rapped his knuckles along the edge of the back wall, listening attentively to each dull note. The tone softened, a hollow sound, and after a rough jiggle, the leprechaun pried out the back paneling.
Cillian stared at the safe in disbelief, unsure if he trusted what his eyes were seeing. He could see a whole other world through an opening in the back of the safe.
“What is that?”
“You’ll see. Now come. We must hurry.”
The leprechaun stepped through the safe. Cillian followed cautiously, unsure of what the little sprite was up to with this “whole other world.” He stuck his head through and couldn’t believe what he saw. An entire city lay on the other side. He hopped back and probed the safe from top to bottom, looking for some explanation. You couldn’t just walk through a hole into a whole different world. He could see the gap between the safe and the wall. He ran his hand along the back and found no hole. He closed the door, stepped back, looked the entire piece over, and opened the door again. The street was still there, Gobán staring impatiently.
Cillian was at a complete loss for words for what he was witnessing. He reached his left hand into the safe and explored around the corner to the right. Felt only a brick wall. With his right hand he groped around on the safe’s back side. Felt only the iron backing. Neither hand found the other. Now he was truly perplexed. He had been bracing himself for something strange, perhaps even dangerous, but not this. Not a violation of the fundamentals of physics.
“Where does it lead to?” Cillian asked.
“You’ll see. Now hurry. I haven’t got all day to waste while you try to figure out how it works.”
Cillian stepped through the back of the safe and stood on the edge of a street. He looked back and saw only a foot-high hole in the brick wall of a building.
“What happened to the entrance to the safe?”
“It shrank,” the leprechaun said, and took off down the street.
“Where are we?” Cillian asked, quick to catch up.
“Another world. One of the hidden worlds.”
“One of Loki’s hidden worlds?”
“No, no. One of the other worlds. He’s not the only one with secrets.”
The city was deserted. Little shops and cafés lined the streets, and signs hung in the windows or were painted on the glass advertising the stores’ specials, and above the shops were apartments, and some of the windows above were dark and some were filled with a pale gray light. The lampposts also cast the streets in arcs of pale gray light. Nowhere was there a mark of color other than shades of black and white. He looked at his hands and was shocked to see that all color had vanished from them, too. His skin, his clothes, his shoes were all shaded drab hues of gray. What had happened to all the color? Then he noticed the leprechaun had retained his color, brilliant shades of red against all the monochrome.
“How are you still in color when everything else is black and white?”
“You ask too many questions. Now hush. You’ll know why I brought you here soon enough. There’s a person who wishes to speak with you. Someone you’ll want to see, too. Trust me.”
Cillian stopped. “Wait. Why are you doing this? Is this some trick?”
“It’s no trick.”
“I broke into your house and threatened you, and you’re going to help me? I’ll retain my skepticism.”
“Justified,” the leprechaun said. “I’ll help you anyway. As for earlier, you meant me no harm. I’ve been dealt with far more harshly by your kind.”
Cillian noticed the silence. It wasn’t that there was no sound—he could hear his tread on the asphalt. It was that there were no sounds other than his, and he had the feeling there was nothing else to make any noise. Even the leprechaun’s footsteps fell silently. The city seemed completely empty, as if all the people had simply left. Looking at the vacant windows, he expected some flicker of a television on the glass, or the faint music from a radio. He saw and heard nothing, which made the sound of his own footsteps seem all the more jarring.
Could the city really be empty? The streets were without any sign of garbage or debris, or even the usual signs of urban decay. No cracks split the sidewalk, the lines on the road looked freshly painted, and the windows were spotless. The city showed no sign of age or use. Was he on a movie set? Even if yes, that still didn’t explain why his skin and clothes had lost their color.
He put his hand on Gobán’s shoulder at an intersection, and spun a slow circle. Two neat walls of buildings stretched as far as he could see down all four streets. Miles away shone luminous pinpoints, star-like—the glow of distant lampposts. If this was a movie set it was massive. Could this all be some elaborate deception of Loki’s? The leprechaun could be leading him into a trap. The thought heightened his vigilance. He couldn’t allow Gobán out of his sight or reach. If danger appeared, the imp might be his only escape.
An unusual sight appeared in the distance and for a moment Cillian forgot about the city’s emptiness. This was far stranger. It took only this momentary distraction to lose the leprechaun. One second Gobán was walking within a foot of him, the next he had vanished without a sign. Cillian had been tricked, and not even with difficulty. What a fool. He had just told himself he wouldn’t allow the leprechaun to escape.
He half expected some new threat to appear, but the streets stayed deserted and quiet. Too quiet. Poignant beauty, though, like a scene from a silent film immortalized in a photo. Only this was no photo. One of those odd moments in life where you find yourself alone and spellbound in an experience beyond words or feelings. Magical and surreal, and the overwhelming feeling is thankfulness to be so blessed for such a fleeting eternity, a memory you will bear until the end. Whatever and wherever that might be.
Cillian waited, but nothing happened. He was alone. The leprechaun hadn’t walked him into an ambush. He had abandoned him. Where was he to go now? His attention turned back to the oddity down the street, and with nothing better to do, and without another plan, he began walking in that direction. He stopped in the middle of the intersection, unsure of what to think of this strange sight. The streetlights cycled from green to yellow to red and back to green. The colors reflected off the asphalt and surrounding buildings. Why was everything in black and white except these lights? He couldn’t decide what distressed him more, the bright lights or the monotony of everything else.
Something else was wrong as well. Something he couldn’t explain, an idea fluttering about in his head like a fly he couldn’t quite catch. A gnawing irritation arose that he couldn’t recognize this new anomaly. He saw nothing, he heard—and then he realized the source of his frustration. Music. So muted he had to strain to determine its source. He walked down the first three streets in turn and each time he lost the song. Down the fourth street the melody amplified. Though muffled, he would recognize Glen Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” anywhere.
The song drifted breezily from a speaker above the entran
ce to an empty café. Such a calm, soothing melody. A touch of sedative. Few songs had ever said so much without a single spoken word. Lining the sidewalk were tables covered in white cloth and set with silverware, napkins, and a vase of gray flowers. The windows inside the café was dark, his image reflected. A bizarre moment, a song from his youth floating in the night as he gazed upon the face of a much younger self. So many memories of his young adult life were linked to this one song that he couldn’t hear it without being swept up in a tide of nostalgia. Innocence, serenity, regret, longing, joy, and sorrow all entwined.
An image of Evelyn materialized where his own had been. The dark pool of her irises, chestnut-brown hair, deep dimples, and the radiant smile that had always brightened his world. He leaned in and pressed his fingers against her soft lips. Touched only glass. Her image dissipated, leaving his own in its place. He stepped back, a touch of breath and smeared fingerprints on the glass. He looked around, unsure for a moment what had just happened. It was all his imagination—had to be—yet the vision seemed so real. Or did it? Everything and nothing felt real and all at once.
He pulled out a chair, sat down, buried his head into his palms, and allowed himself a moment of self-pity. The sight of Evelyn had awakened a haunting feeling of loneliness. He wasn’t just alone in this world, but all these worlds. Even surrounded by others he was a man apart. None of them understood what he was going through. The confusion, the fear, the constant anxiety. He had never felt so lost and alone in all his life.
He sank down into these thoughts, let them submerge him. He had learned that fighting such feelings usually backfired. Better to confront, then purge, cleansing his mind of their noxious grip.
The song played on a loop. He left the café on its second ending and walked down the street. Long after the loudspeaker had faded away, echoes of the haunting melody still filled his head. That was the essence of true art. It should leave a mark, like a tattoo one carries for the rest of their lives; it becomes a part of them. The effect of art is more than a feeling. It can’t be defined or quantified. True art brands the soul.