Camp Arcanum

by Josef Matulich

Marc heard one word, spoken loudly and clearly in a woman’s voice inside his head. The word was “Courage.”

  He had no idea whether that was telepathy or memory or the Goddess of the Witches putting in her two cents, but it seemed like good advice. First shuffling, then stepping and stomping, Marc did his best to keep up with the High Priestess.

  Though he probably looked like an arrhythmic rhino in black leather, Marc danced, baltered, and spun with Brenwyn until the bonfire was just a pile of glowing embers.

  * * * * *

  It was a little before midnight and Marc found himself back on the wide, dirt path. There was just enough moonlight to navigate, though some of the vegetation blocked it out.

  The footing was just as treacherous as on the way up, but with an added hazard to navigation: a mildly manic witch. Brenwyn was energetic, at times running small circles around Marc. He loped along at more cautious pace with the shovel slung over his left shoulder. Marc studied their last snack from the bonfire.

  “Somehow,” he said, “I don’t think chocolate fudge counts as either cake or ale.”

  “Modern Wicca is always willing to make accommodations for circumstances,” she purred, “especially in favor of chocolate.”

  Marc carefully broke the piece of fudge in two, an act complicated by the shovel haft still in his left hand. He offered Brenwyn half. She leaned forward, her arms tight against her side and her mouth open wide like a baby bird. She sensuously took it into her mouth and sucked the chocolate off his fingertips.

  “Stop that,” Marc scolded. “You’re giving me ideas.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Am I being too forward?”

  “No, not at all,” he replied absently.

  Marc looked out into the darkness for landmarks. Discretion being the greatest part of valor.

  “So which way is your car?” he asked. “It’s late and I should be getting you home.”

  “My car is the other way, but I was hoping you would be taking me home tonight.”

  I guess discretion is right out, Marc thought. Oh well, how bad could it really get?

  “I hope you mean my trailer,” he said in a resigned tone. “I’m not up for a drive to Pittsburgh right now.”

  Brenwyn wrapped her arms around his right bicep and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “Anywhere you and I can be alone,” she murmured. “Can you honestly say you are not interested?”

  Marc chuckled nervously. It would take no special abilities at all to tell he was very interested, almost painfully so. What little blood that remained in his brain was lobbying for caution.

  “It’s not a matter of interest,” he said. “Our romantic evenings turn out to be disasters. I don’t want to end up in the ER.”

  “Then I will promise to be gentle,” she said.

  Brenwyn leaned up to kiss Marc, first chaste, working up to something that demonstrated long-suppressed hunger. After several seconds, Marc and Brenwyn had to break apart for both to catch their breath.

  “Is it your exquisite timing,” he gasped, “to have us making out in the woods like a couple of teenagers?”

  “There seems to be something interfering with that sense right now.” She buried her face in his chest and giggled briefly.

  “I noticed. You’re positively giddy. Did they slip something in the cider?”

  “No, it was the circle tonight.” Brenwyn looked up at him and her eyes were bright violet. “It was glorious! Better than I ever remember. You should have joined us. All the power of the entire coven flowing through you, it gives you warm fuzzies all over your body.” She danced away from him, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back. “The second best feeling in the world.”

  Marc’s habitual caution was returning as Brenwyn seemed to unwind.

  “I don’t feel things,” he grumbled. “I fix them. Usually with a hammer.”

  “You are upset,” she pouted. “What is the matter now?”

  “To be honest, and I have to be since you already know my answer, my male pride is injured,” he said. “I’d hate to think that the only way I have a chance with you is when you’re hopped up on magick.”

  Brenwyn was instantly conciliatory. Marc was getting whiplash following her moods.

  “Do not be that way.” She toyed with his hair as she spoke. “Do you remember the first day we met?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’m still recovering.”

  She slipped her right hand into his and looked him square in the eye.

  “When our hands touched and our eyes met, I knew that you were the man I have been waiting for all my life.”

  As terrifying as that confession was on so many levels, it also sounded like good news to Marc. He tried to respond in kind.

  “I wasn’t so sure of things. I just knew you were the most beautiful woman—” He searched for something that didn’t make him sound like an absolute sap. “I spent days wondering if . . .”

  “If what?” she prodded.

  He gave up and dove in.

  “I was wondering if I had the courage to pursue you. My success with relationships is practically nonexistent.” He thought back to some of his breakups that rivaled the Apocalypse. Marc decided he wasn’t going to mention the voice in his head earlier; too much like schizophrenia. “Is that why you asked for courage this evening?”

  “It was for me, too.” Brenwyn was subdued, practically blushing. “I have not had much luck with . . . decent men. The scoundrels hang around forever and the good ones leave or get chased away.”

  “What, by black magic and evil spirits?” He thought he was joking.

  “You could say something like that.”

  Marc sighed. This is still Arcanum, after all.

  Without a word, the two started off for his trailer. Marc wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  * * * * *

  As they came around a bend in the path, a light appeared in a forest clearing below them.

  “What’s that?” Marc asked.

  “I am sure it is nothing,” Brenwyn replied. She sounded uncomfortable.

  “It looks like another bonfire,” he said. “I gave permission for only one pagan ritual on the premises.”

  “I am sure it will be just fine,” Brenwyn cooed in a reassuring tone. “Practitioners are very careful with fires.”

  She pulled her cloak tight around her throat and shivered pitiably.

  “Can we get back to your trailer, Marc? I am getting a bit of a chill.”

  Marc’s eyes stayed focused on the bonfire below. He couldn’t see how big the fire was or who was around it.

  “I have to check this out,” he said. “If some miscreant sets fire to the woods, I’m out of a job and your group will never be able to use this site again.”

  She seemed very disappointed with that answer.

  “But if you go down there and put out their fire, you will be all tired and sweaty and we will have to postpone what I have planned for tonight.”

  Brenwyn stood on tiptoe to nibble Marc’s neck. Blood that had returned to his brain as he contemplated possible disasters started to seep downhill again. He even dropped his shovel. Marc allowed himself to be distracted by the sensation for a few moments, until the phantom bludgeon pain hit him across the back of the head. Coming to his senses, Marc gently pushed Brenwyn away to hold her at arm’s length.

  “Okay, what’s really going on here?” he grumbled.

  “I do not know what you are talking about.” She was the picture of innocence.

  A thoroughly photo-shopped picture, he thought. Like Jesus riding a T Rex.

  “That would be the first time ever,” he said firmly. “Now, confess.”

  She dropped her act, which, of course, could have been another, more subtle, act.

  “It would be a bad idea to go down there right now,” she replied sullenly.

  “Can you tell me why?” He was beginning to feel his blood boil, and not in the fun way of a few minutes ago.


  “I would rather not.” Brenwyn looked away into the darkness, not meeting his eye or looking at the offending bonfire.

  “And you can’t guarantee,” he continued, “that nothing bad will happen if I ignore this?”

  “I cannot predict or guarantee the future.” She bit her lip and flicked her eyes between Marc and the fire. “I do know that there are events around that fire you should not disturb.”

  “Is there anything you’re allowed to tell us outsiders?”

  “Let us just say that the myriad ways this evening can turn into an absolute disaster are staggering to the mind,” she said. “Trust me.”

  Without really thinking, Marc grabbed Brenwyn by the shoulders. He hunched over to look her straight in the eye.

  “Look, Brenwyn,” he gushed, “I love you with all that entails about trust and faithfulness. But, I can’t—I can’t just take your word about this. If something dicey is happening on Steve’s property, I have to check it out and fix it.”

  Brenwyn looked stunned.

  Taking the opportunity to leave without further argument, Marc gave Brenwyn a quick kiss.

  “Stay here,” he said, “if you’re that frightened.”

  Marc picked up his shovel and jogged down the path towards the bonfire. Brenwyn stood where he left her.

  “He said, ‘I love you’ first.” Marc could hear her saying this to herself. Her tone was misty, than instantly hardened. “That is a Hell of a time to spring that one on me. Marc! You wait for me! I am not letting you go down there alone!”

  * * * * *

  Marc stalked down the dirt path, moving as quickly as reasonable in the dark.

  The branches overhead filtered out the moonlight to almost pitch black, except for a few patches of silver on the ground. The bonfire was a flickering light at the end of the trail, more of an irritant than an aide to navigation. All he wanted to do was snuff it out.

  Brenwyn kept up with him, though she was breathing heavily. She carried her ritual tool bag embroidered with moons and stars in her left hand. Her black-handled dagger was in her right. He looked back at her just long enough to convince himself she didn’t intend to use it on him

  “Look,” Marc said in a harsh whisper, “I told you if you’re scared you can stay behind.” He kept his eyes on the glimmer of firelight up ahead.

  “I am fearing for your safety, Marc,” Brenwyn huffed. “From the look in your eye, I should be afraid for anyone you come across, too.”

  “I dislike trespassers, I hate the stupid ones that do damage, and I really hate being manipulated.” He aimed the last remark directly at Brenwyn.

  “I was just trying to avoid another calamity.” She was starting to get her wind back, and with it an angry edge to her voice. “Was it too much to hope that you would prefer to go to bed with me instead of being permanently disfigured and insane in an institution?”

  Marc stalked on, trying to focus on what trouble might be ahead.

  “With some luck,” Brenwyn continued, “I could get you placed in the same room where your brother hung himself. You would have to get used to sleeping without sheets, of course.”

  Brenwyn delivered those last remarks with a devastating combination of cold cruelty and fury. Marc felt it as a punch to the gut.

  He stopped dead in a pool of moonlight in the center of what passed for the path there.

  “Well, that got my attention,” he snapped.

  “Good,” Brenwyn replied shortly, the ice still in her voice, “because that is still one of the evening’s myriad possible outcomes.”

  Marc, having gone through this with several other women, recognized this as the first round of a knock-down, drag-out fight. He wanted to save that for the trespassers. He closed his eyes and counted to three under his breath.

  “Can you tell me what is going on there?” he asked in as even a tone as he could muster.

  “I believe it is best for you to know as little as possible.” Though not helpful, at least her tone was civil.

  Marc sighed. I tried, he told himself. I really tried with this woman.

  “Fine, just humor the woman you love,” Brenwyn said with a crooked half-smile. “And I do appreciate that you are trying.”

  Marc was pulled up short by her repeating his thought back to him. Which was her intent with the trick, he was sure. He would worry about how she did that later.

  “Do you remember the movie marathon?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “You nearly had a breakdown after that.” She nodded her head towards the bonfire. “This will make that scene look as normal as brunch at the Russian Tearoom.”

  “I can handle this,” Marc grumbled.

  Brenwyn looked him over, maybe assessing his aura.

  “Are you still seeing tree spirits?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “I saw dozens of them around the circle tonight.”

  “Then you will see the problem more clearly than I, once we pass those trees.”

  “I still wish you would tell me something—” Marc didn’t like be kept in the dark, figuratively speaking.

  “If I were to tell you in simple terms,” Brenwyn said, lecturing him as if he were a twelve-year old, “you would never believe me. And you would get yourself killed trying to prove me wrong.”

  She looked him over again, just a hair less decisive than usual with a hint of sadness.

  “I trust your instincts,” she said. “More than you trust me, it seems.”

  Marc chose to give up the argument. Brenwyn must have seen that on his face. She slipped her tool case back into a pocket inside her cloak.

  “Now that we have come to an understanding,” she said firmly, “I am going first.”

  Chapter 13

  It’s a Goddamn Shovel

  WITHOUT WAITING FOR MARC, BRENWYN strode down the path, looking like a dark ship under full sail as her cloak billowed out behind her.

  “Why are you taking point?” he asked as he caught up with her.

  “Do you not believe in ‘Ladies First’?” she chirped.

  Marc didn’t appreciate her attempt at humor and he wasn’t going to let it distract him. Brenwyn’s next answer was less flippant.

  “These . . . things, I can fight them.” She said. “You would never stand a chance against them.”

  “What things?”

  “Watch for them.”

  That was all he was going to get out of her, he was sure. Marc scanned the woods to either side of the path. He could see shadows moving among the trees. Occasionally, Marc caught the flicker of red, glowing eyes. The shadows moved like oil on water or billows of smoke. The light of the bonfire shined through them as if they were not completely solid. Incomprehensible, grumbling voices drifted out of the darkness.

  Marc felt his stomach lurch, the same way it did the first time he saw the local tree spirits or the monsters that loitered outside his trailer’s windows.

  “There’s something moving in the trees,” Marc said, “and I’m damn sure those aren’t deer. Can you see them?”

  “Of course not.” Her confident tone slipped a little there. “I feel them. I can hear them, too.”

  The deep rumbling noise they made could have been either a dirge or a war chant, or both. The sound ran down Marc’s spine and settled in his gut.

  “I don’t understand what they’re saying, but they’re damned unhappy about something.”

  “That is a good summation. Primal pain, primal hatred, and they cannot wait to inflict it upon something else.”

  Marc and Brenwyn continued down the path at a brisk pace in spite of what surrounded them.

  “What are they?”

  Brenwyn ignored his question, simply pointing towards the bonfire with a minute elevation of her chin. They had finally reached the end of the path and Marc had a clear line of sight to the stranger’s bonfire. A wall of moving shadows gyred around the fire, outside a circle of chalk. Nine men in black and red robes stood a
round the fire and chanted.

  The shadows around Marc and Brenwyn coalesced into surreal shapes: combinations of animals, fish, and insects with spines, claws, and glowing eyes.

  One form rose to a height well above Marc’s head and bellowed down at him. Marc clutched his shovel in both hands in front of him and hoped Brenwyn had a plan.

  “Brenwyn?”

  “Behind me,” she ordered. “Now!”

  Marc complied as Brenwyn pointed the dagger up at the heart of the shadow. She chanted something in a furious whisper. The shadow sprouted dozens of thorny appendages as it approached.

  “You’re not going to cut these with your knife,” he muttered.

  “Quiet!”

  As Brenwyn continued her chant, the first form flowed away from the tip of her knife as if blown by a strong wind. The rumbling noise it made changed to an angry hiss.

  A second form rose with a screech from the other side of the path. Marc found himself between it and Brenwyn as it puffed itself up to a height of eight or nine feet.

  “Another spook,” he shouted. “Seven o’clock!”

  “I know!”

  Brenwyn wheeled around to face it. Marc swiveled to stay behind her.

  As the second form retreated, a claw/tentacle from yet another thing swept over Marc’s head. He ducked and then swore as the tentacle tore a strip of bark off the tree behind him.

  “Rat’s ass! These guys do not play nice.”

  Brenwyn broke off her chant for a moment.

  “We have to get clear of the trees,” she said. “They breed in the shadows.”

  She pointed with her dagger to a clearing ahead of them. A single shadow, what looked like a seething pile of eyes and snakes and teeth, stood at the end of the path to block their escape.

  “There’s already something there!” Marc warned.

  “Then it will just have to get out of my way,” she snapped.

  Marc recognized the sound of murder and mayhem in her voice, a tone that was usually his. He could see in the dim light that her eyes had turned silver. He moved in close behind her and hoped she was less dangerous than whatever he had pissed off.

  Brenwyn pressed forward with her chants and dagger like a Marine with a rifle and a fixed bayonet. The mass of impossible forms flowed away as another tangle of tentacles and spines flowed into their path low to the ground.