“You have your tape measure?”
“You want me to wrap a tape around every tree in the woods?” Eleazar asked indignantly.
“Just eyeball it.” Michael knew he should be patient with the intellectually challenged, but this was getting tedious. “Everything over a certain diameter you just mark. Don’t bother with the saplings.”
Eleazar gave him the same vacant stare reserved for his lectures on art history.
“Circumference is diameter times pi,” Michael said. “So just divide by . . .” Michael did some quick calculations in his head. “Anything more than about eighteen inches across, just mark it with a big X.”
“Does it have to be an X?” Eleazar asked in a wheedling tone.
“It can be a Y or a W or an Aleph if you want,” Michael snapped. “Just mark them! We’ll meet here around noon.”
Eleazar saluted and bowed with a flourish.
“I live to obey.” Eleazar disappeared into the trees with a bag of spray cans, maintaining a march step with some difficulty over the uneven ground.
“Jesus Christ!” Michael muttered and collected his own spray cans.
* * * * *
Marc prepared to drop another tree into the ever-larger clearing. As he cut the front wedge, Marc caught movement out of the corner of his eye, high up in a tree off to his right. It was something small, no larger than a squirrel, and it aroused no sense of alarm in Marc. There was just something odd about it that made him curious.
He slowly put the chainsaw down and turned his head to check. Whatever animal this was, it was the same color as the bark beneath it. As Marc turned to look at it square on, it faded away completely. All he saw was the rough bark of the oak tree.
Sunlight filtered through moving clouds and leaves, Marc reasoned to himself. It can play tricks on your eyes. This was nothing to worry about.
He had trees to fell and land to clear. There was no time for nonsense. Still, the first thing that sprang to his mind, as it had for the last few decades, was how visual hallucinations were the first symptoms of Allen’s schizophrenia.
* * * * *
“Milord, I have assayed and demarcated these trees so well, you will be transported with rapture.” Eleazar dragged Michael through the woods like he was an anxious five-year-old.
“Well, I’m sure if . . .”
“No, no, no! You must see this now, your worship,” Eleazar crooned. “Close your eyes.”
“What?”
“For the full effect,” said Eleazar.
Michael closed his eyes tightly as Eleazar guided him to the proper spot.
“You may open them now, milord,” Eleazar said
Michael opened his eyes. Spelled out on the trees, in foot tall Day-Glo letters on separate trees was the message:
B i t e m e M i k e
“Is it not pleasing to the eye?” Eleazar asked.
“You spelled all three words correctly. I’m so proud.”
Eleazar curtsied.
Michael pointed at a fallen tree.
“Sit there.”
“As you wish,” said Eleazar as he sat.
“Don’t move.”
“Most certainly, milord.”
“Close your eyes.”
“Now, wait a minute!” Eleazar sprang to his feet without thinking.
“When you and your wife have sex, does she insist on being on top so you can’t get away?”
“You are an evil man,” Eleazar responded, but still sat. “’Twill take weeks for me to strike that image from my mind.”
“I’ve got more. Sit down and close your eyes or I’ll start drawing pictures,” Michael threatened. “No peeking.”
Eleazar sat with his eyes tightly closed. He was more than mildly curious about what Michael might have in mind, especially since Marc had ordered him to do everything the little martinet desired.
Eleazar heard Michael's pack drop to the ground. A moment after that came the sound of Michael unzipping the long zipper of his jacket. Shortly thereafter there was the sound of yet another zipper. That could only be the fly of his starched khaki shorts. A little chill ran down Eleazar's spine; Marc had after all said to do everything Michael ordered. Eleazar ventured to open one eye despite Michael's request.
Michael was relieving his bladder against the tree. What had been a stream pinched off to a pathetic dribble as Michael realized Eleazar was watching. He turned his head, quickly finished, and zipped up.
“You just had to peek didn’t you?” Michael said peevishly.
“I’m sorry. I thought you . . .”
“I was going to stick something in your face while you weren’t looking?” Michael was indignant. “Just because I like boys doesn’t mean I want you watching my biological functions. Besides, if I were going to have a romp in the forest with a straight guy, it wouldn’t be you. Get over yourself.”
Eleazar had no witty banter or tricks as a fallback. It was a horrific feeling.
“You know,” sputtered Eleazar, “I think I just this moment got my second wind. I believe I’ll go mark some more trees.” He glanced over at the wet spot of the tree trunk adjacent. “With paint, that is.”
“Whatever,” said Michael.
Eleazar picked up a few spray cans and departed quickly with what dignity he had left.
* * * * *
Michael and Eleazar grumbled as they came into camp several hours later. Theodora was idling loudly behind the barn, but there was no sign of Marc. With growing curiosity, they shambled in the direction of the noise.
“Let’s check in with our Lord and Master, and then I’m going to take a long hot shower,” groaned Eleazar.
“And I’m going to go to the bathroom in someplace with a door and white tile,” said Michael.
As they rounded the corner, Michael and Eleazar saw what Marc had accomplished in one day. An area the size of a football field had been cleared of everything except low shrubs and stumps. Brush and branches were piled to the left of the clearing; trimmed tree trunks were carefully stacked to the right. Theodora, with her logging chains still attached, idled beside the stack.
A stuffed Barney toy, bandaged with one paw in a sling, sat on a stump near the center of the field. Stuffing was coming out of many seams.
Eleazar nudged Michael in the ribs and whispered in his ear:
“It was all done by elves.”
Chapter 4
Witchcraft of the Darkest Kind
MARC ELBOWED HIS WAY OUT of the Student Discount Center laden with two coffees, a bottled water, and a white bakery bag filled with bearclaws. He accelerated to match the pace of Sunday morning foot traffic in Arcanum, weaving and turning to avoid collisions.
A knot of black-clad young men approached from the direction of the movie theater. Marc got the impression from their carriage and the pentacles around their necks that they were some of Jeremiah Stone’s students. The group refused to give way and he found himself nearly pushed into a fairy-festooned pin oak growing up out of an iron grate. If he had been unencumbered with hot coffee, he would have dropped a shoulder and bounced one of the light-weights off of a brick façade. He glared at the mob for just a moment, then turned his attention to the three girls in peasant skirts and frilly blouses approaching dead ahead. Simultaneously, he kept an eye on the Goths’ reflections in the store windows to be sure they would not attempt an ambush once his back was turned.
He dodged through the girls’ midst while not spilling his coffees. The three, all looking like Earth Mother witch wannabees, giggled amongst themselves. Not for the first time that week, Marc thought about Brenwyn and wondered when and where she would be showing up next. He just as quickly decided he should stop thinking about her and instead have some breakfast.
Marc's general philosophy of training was this: to make hard things seem easy, you need to constantly make easy things hard. This morning called for an exercise in balance and dexterity.
Marc shifted the bag, bottle, and one cup of coffee into
his left hand. Without changing his pace, he positioned the other coffee between the thumb and little finger of his right hand and grasped a pastry inside the bag between his first two fingers. With a cautious twist of the wrist, he pulled the bearclaw out of the bag without spilling any coffee inside.
Marc took a huge bite of the pastry, dislodging only a few sliced almonds from the top, while still walking and savoring his achievement. He took a cautious sip of scalding hot coffee to rinse it all down.
A woman called out behind him, loud and sharp:
“Good morning, Marc!”
A bit of bearclaw caught on one of Marc's tonsils and set off a choking fit. He stopped then, holding his hands as high as he could while still holding everyone's breakfast. Brenwyn came rustling up from behind and laid a hand on his arm. Today, she wore blue and purple satin and a blue knit shawl. Her low-cut bodice gave her the “oysters on the beach” look so popular at ren faires. He glanced away immediately, feeling that familiar twinge at the base of his skull.
“I did not startle you, did I?”
Brenwyn looked up at him with pale violet eyes, the image of innocence.
“No,” gasped Marc, “no, just swallowed wrong.”
“Swallowing is important,” Brenwyn affirmed.
There were two ways a conversation could go from a remark like that. Marc chose the way that led back to his crew waiting for him in the park. He regained control of his throat and his bearclaw and started walking again.
“Brenwyn.” Marc swallowed again to clear his throat. “Nice to see you.” He nursed a grudging admiration for the woman. Eleazar, with mime training and a decade of attempts, had never yet snuck up on him.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to cause you any discomfort.” Brenwyn was playful this morning, and she half-turned back and forth as she walked with Marc. She made a swishing sound of skirts and petticoats as they flared around her.
“You lie,” said Marc.
“Everybody lies,” she said. “I just like to be good at what I do.”
“I think I said that once.” Marc was convinced that someone in this town had done deep background research on him. He wasn't going to let it throw him.
“I know,” Brenwyn said. Her tone was perhaps a bit smug, but Marc couldn’t hold it against her. She was very pretty when she smiled. They walked side-by-side in silence as Marc regained his inner balance. He offered her the white bag.
“Bearclaw? I’ve got an extra.”
“Thank you,” Brenwyn said brightly. Marc felt himself warming inside as she plucked a bearclaw out of the bag.
They munched and walked in silence. Marc maintained a pleasant, neutral expression.
“The Bad Magick Marathon is showing next week,” Brenwyn said as they passed the theater.
“Really?” Marc asked casually as he dodged around a slow-moving Mennonite couple.
“You have no idea what I am talking about,” she fired back.
“It happens a lot,” Marc said. “The whole man/woman thing.”
Marc just kept walking, chewing and sipping carefully.
“The owner of the local theater,” she explained, “every year presents an evening of movies that really offend the local Wiccans.”
“Like Hocus Pocus?” Marc offered.
“The Witches and The Craft,” she added.
“‘Mommy Dearest?’” Marc held breakfast high over his head as he was momentarily swarmed by a flock of what he assumed to be Wiccan children in jeans and pentacle tee-shirts.
“I said ‘witch’ with a ‘w’,” Brenwyn replied, enunciating carefully. “The owner hangs a plastic drop cloth over the screen and lets us throw jujubes at Fairuza Balk.”
“Sounds like fun,” Marc said. Marc tried to keep his tone light, but something was setting off alarm klaxons in his head, something besides sex and the violence it did to his deadlines.
“I have an extra ticket,” she offered.
“Are you inviting me to another pagan ritual?” Though he tried to give no outward sign, he was playing through several worst-case scenarios in his head.
“Not a ritual, more like a tradition,” she said soothingly. “I thought you might like to see some of the local culture firsthand.”
Marc shrugged.
“Perhaps you might like to see some bad movies with three hundred women behaving badly,” she continued in a coquettish tone.
Marc chewed and remained silent.
Brenwyn gave him a sly, sidewise glance. “Or maybe you just like to throw half-chewed jujubes?”
“Yes to all of the above,” Marc said. “You’re not recruiting for your coven, are you? I’ve seen a lot of bad horror movies start this way.”
“I have got my twelve plus ten spares,” she reassured him.
“Okay,” Marc said, “but I’ve got to be going, now.”
“Michael and Eleazar await you in the park,” said Brenwyn. She had a very precise way of speaking, almost as if she learned English a few centuries before he had. Or she could be trying to fool him into believing she was both immortal and omniscient.
“Do you know everything about me?” he snapped. As soon as the remark came out of his mouth, Marc regretted it.
“No, not at all.” Brenwyn gave him a mysterious look. “For example, why did you get that extra bearclaw today?”
“Clerical error,” Marc quipped. He actually purchased the extra one in case somebody dropped one, part of his innate disaster-avoidance plan.
“No intuition, gut feelings?” she asked.
“Not to be rude,” Marc said shortly, “but my universe is mechanical—masses, vectors, nuts, and bolts. No devils. No angels. No magic spells.”
“Oh, there is no romance in that,” she replied in a mock pout.
Marc had to disagree with her there. There was something romantic to him about living inside an incredibly complex clockwork device controlled by designs at the level of quarks.
“I’m not going to tell anyone how to live their lives,” Marc said, “but ‘magical thinking’ is something shrinks try to cure. I’ve seen a lot of miserable lives because of people chasing fairies and waiting for magic to happen.” He heard the words coming out of his mouth, and they had far more of an edge to them than he had planned. He wondered, just for a second, if he was actually speaking to his dead brother, using Brenwyn as a proxy.
Marc took a deep breath and continued in his natural tone. “You can withdraw that invite, now.”
“No. You do not have to believe. I would just like you to be there,” Brenwyn sighed. “I enjoy your company.”
“If I’m forgiven for that rant,” Marc said, “well, then it’s a date.” Though it would most likely end in tragedy, he could handle a date every decade or so.
“I shall hold you to that.” Brenwyn used a firm, matriarchal tone. Marc felt himself snap to, as if under inspection.
“This is my exit,” he said, nodding towards the park. “I’ll see you later. Blessed Jujubes!”
“Blessed be!” she giggled.
Marc walked off, noshing and sipping. To distract himself from her and their conversation, Marc ran his own version of “For Want of a Nail” through his head:
Plot the land; pull the permits.
Fill the tool barn; build the camp.
Find the men; file their papers.
Design the faire; post the plot.
Clear the paths; trim the trunks.
The plans spun out as he walked, Marc’s own clockwork universe, until he had the faire completely built inside his head.
* * * * *
Brenwyn was satisfied with the tight little knot Marc had tied his brain into after it had so quickly gone to mush. It was nice to know she could still have that kind of an effect on a man.
Marc veered off towards the park and Brenwyn watched him walk away, a masculine confection in black denim and leather. That did her heart good, too. As fond as she was of the sensitive mystics and intellectuals, there was something to be said for th
e rugged outdoors type.
Feather and a few members of her coven on the street emanated an aura of sympathetic joy she could read as easily as the signs on the storefronts. Even the trees seemed to be happy for her.
All was right with her world.
She practically skipped as she headed back for her shop. She dodged through crowds on the street, feeling the lives of those around her as much as seeing them. Brenwyn felt she could call bluebirds down to roost on her fingers like a fairytale princess. The cheerful song in her heart died right away as she found herself nose-to-nose with Jeremiah Stone. Somehow, he had dropped himself directly into her path without warning.
“Now, don’t you two make a sweet couple?” Jeremiah simpered. “I can see why you like to watch him walk away. But he is just another skin bag. No real talent, no real power.”
Whatever spell Jeremiah used to hide himself and his actions from her, it made him feel like a cold, empty hole in space where a human should be standing. That, along with some memories of their intimate time together, turned her stomach.
“You lie,” Brenwyn said. “You want him as much as I do—for the wrong reasons.” She looked to see if there was any route for a quick escape. “Besides, he has a good heart.”
“So do I,” purred Jeremiah. “I keep it in a jar of formaldehyde.”
Jeremiah reached out and stroked her cheek.
“And if it comes to muscle,” he added, “I have more than enough for my purposes. I’m sure you remember.”
He put on his “charming” smile. It had stopped working on Brenwyn long ago, when she found what lay behind the mask: basically an undersized fiend with an oversized ego to compensate.
“Do you not have some other ex-lover to disgust?” Brenwyn tried to back away, but Jeremiah had her pressed back against an equally distressed oak tree.
“You’re not an ‘ex’ anything,” he went on, undeterred. “I simply put you down for a turn with my other toys.”
Jeremiah drew closer and his hands came to rest on her hips. Like rude little animals, they started roaming across her body.
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