Weald Fae 01 - The Steward

by Christopher Shields

  I met Sherman Byrne first. After a sleigh ride—a horse drawn sleigh ride—to the Byrne’s cottage, he met us at the front door. He was just taller than me, white-haired, and quite handsome for an older man. The cottage was a two-story brick, timber and stucco structure with a steeply pitched wood-shake roof that, even under several inches of snow, appeared to undulate. It was so quirky it was charming, like Aunt May’s cottage, and looked like the homes I’d seen in pictures of the Cotswolds. The cottage was set in front of an ancient grove of trees, with the lake in view just beyond it. To the right of the cottage, just up a slight knoll, there was a pasture about a hundred feet wide and at least three times as deep. It was surrounded by a stacked-stone wall that looked about four or five feet tall. A small stone barn and stables stood at the back of the clearing, near a bluff. The entire scene was picturesque.

  After he introduced himself, Sherman invited us to go inside where it was warm. As we started toward the house I heard the front door open.

  “Gavin, son, could you tend to the horses?” Sherman asked.

  I froze in my tracks, looking up too quickly. Gavin smiled. I couldn’t breathe.

  He pulled on an insulated coat, but not before I saw the muscles bulging under the long sleeves of his sweatshirt. My heart raced. Oh my god, he’s really just sixteen? He was quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on. Olive skin, thick, wavy, jet-black hair and the most amazing chocolate brown eyes—his smile made my knees weak. It was an impossible smile—square jaw, cleft-chin, dimples, all surrounding perfect white teeth. The girls were right. He was gorgeous, and unreal—sixteen going on twenty-five.

  Gavin stepped down off the small stoop, moving like a jaguar on the prowl, and walked up to Dad with his hand out. He appeared to be an inch or so taller than Dad, who stood six-feet-two. As they shook hands, I felt a nudge. I looked down to my left and Mitch smiled up at me, dimples at full power.

  “Sis, don’t stare—you’re being rude,” he said before he let loose a rotten giggle.

  “I’m not staring, so shush it,” I whispered back, hoping that Gavin hadn’t heard what Mitch said.

  “Wipe your chin, Mags—you have a drool-cicle forming.” He giggled again and shifted his eyes to Gavin, then back to me, just before wiping at his chin with an exaggerated gesture. He really enjoyed this.

  I bent over toward him, keeping my voice low, and said, “There are lots of places to hide bodies around this lake.”

  Mitch giggled, and whispered, “Okay, okay, I’m just messin’ with ya.”

  Just then Gavin walked up to us, taking Mitch’s hand when he came close. My heart raced, so I quickly went into relaxation mode. It worked. My pulse slowed and I could feel my shoulders relax under the heavy coat that seemed suddenly too tight. The butterflies in my stomach refused to fully settle down, however.

  “You must be Maggie. I’m Gavin,” he said, looking me squarely in the eyes, the right side of his perfect mouth curving up enough to form a dimple in his cheek.

  I managed to smile back. “Nice to meet you, Gavin.”

  My voice sounded small and weak and my stomach tightened, but I stuck my mitted hand out nonetheless. He took my hand and shook it, gently but firmly.

  “How do you like all this?” he asked, looking around, still holding my hand.

  “It’s good I guess,” I managed, a little out of breath. “I’m not used to the cold yet, but the snow is great.”

  He let go of my hand, unfortunately, but I guess he had to.

  “So, you want to help me with the horses?” he asked, looking back at Mitch. As he turned his head back to me, his broad, full smile made me weak, and his full dimples were irresistible. My legs nearly buckled.

  Mitch responded with his own world-class smile. “Are you serious? Dad, can I help … umm … him with the horses?” Mitch asked, pointing to Gavin.

  Dad shook his head. “Not unless you can remember his name.”

  Gavin leaned down a couple of inches, turning his head away from Dad, and loudly whispered, “Gavin.”

  “Oh yeah, Gavin. Can I help Gavin, Dad?”

  “Sure, kiddo, but don’t get in the way. Are you going to help too, Maggie?” He looked at me with a devious smile and a raised eyebrow. Oh great, Dad saw me staring, too.

  “No, I think I want heat,” I said as nonchalantly as I could.

  Gavin looked me in the eyes again, just for a second, and smiled. My heart raced ahead a couple of beats. “I’ll see you inside, then. Come on, Mitch,” he said, turning to my brother. He put his hand on Mitch’s shoulder and they walked toward the sleigh. Wow, I can’t believe I’m jealous of my kid brother.

  I heard the bells on the horses jingle again as we entered the cottage. We walked past a bright and cheerful room with big, outdated but comfortable looking furniture. In the living room there were trinkets on the tables, and silver frames holding black and white family photos placed all about reflected the fire burning in the fireplace. The windows were neatly draped with clean white curtains.

  Through the dining room, we entered a large country kitchen with white cupboards and butcher-block countertops. On the other end, an island separated it from a small sunroom with a fireplace on the interior wall and windows lining the other three—all of them with stunning views of the lake.

  A striking woman with salt-and-pepper hair came out of a side room, drying her hands on a towel. She had dark eyes, just like Sara. Like the other Byrnes, she also had perfect teeth. She introduced herself as Victoria, Sherman’s wife.

  She was a pretty woman, but in a handsome kind of way, with a strong, square jaw, high cheekbones, and very thin, sharply arched eyebrows. Victoria’s hair was pulled back with a silver comb. A little broad around the hips and shoulders, she nevertheless moved like she was in great shape. In fact, she looked at least fifteen-years younger than Sherman. After she took our coats, she ushered Mom and me to seats next to Aunt May by the fireplace.

  They started talking, and I tried to listen but found myself instead thinking about Gavin. He was all I could think about. I fought the urge to walk back onto the front stoop to get a glimpse of him—I still couldn’t believe he was real. Maybe he wasn’t real—maybe I had cabin fever or something. That happens in the snow, right? I just came from the Miami metro area, where the most beautiful people in the world lived and played, or so I thought. The odds seemed heavily stacked against me finding the most beautiful guy in the world living just down the road in Carroll County, Arkansas … in a rented house that my family owned.

  Determined to stay sane, I tried to focus, relax, and come back to reality. I managed to stop looking at the front door. Sara sat quietly in the corner, listening to Mom, Aunt May, and Victoria talk about Europe. Apparently, Victoria, Sherman, and Gavin had spent the past six years in Strasbourg, France, near the border of Germany. Victoria assured my mother that the best Riesling wines in the world were Alsatian, and made in a little village just south of Strasbourg, called Ribeauville.

  Just as I tried to imagine the half-timbered, half-plastered buildings there, I heard the front door open and I jumped a little. I didn’t realize that I’d been listening for it all along.

  Sara put her hand on my knee, and smiled at me. “You alright, Maggie?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Actually, I was mortified, because I had the strangest sensation that Sara was reading my mind. Mind reading? Why not? After all, I just took a sleigh ride into 1880 and met the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen. More impossible than that? Sure. He also happens to be my neighbor, who lives just down the road … yes … down the road in the Currier and Ives lithograph I now call life. I’m sure all of this is printed on a Christmas platter somewhere. Sara turned her head toward the door, causing me to do the same.

  Gavin walked into the kitchen and a tingle spread through my legs and stomach. I looked down at my hands—they were clenched into fists. A deep breath helped me relax a little as I rubbed my palms on my jeans in an e
ffort to dry them, but I couldn’t seem to stop rubbing them. I clasped them together but it felt awkward, so I flattened them out on my lap. Unintentionally, I started twirling my thumbs. God, how annoying! Finally, I just stuck them under my legs and hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  When I looked back up, Gavin was staring at me, and in an instant my hands were back in my lap fidgeting around again—the traitors. A big smile formed on my face—the goofy stretched one that showed too much of my gum line like some grinning psychopath—and I quickly looked away so as not to scare him out of the room. My eyes found Mom. She studied me with a bewildered look on her face. Can this get any worse?

  It could. Gavin took his coat off and hung it on the rack next to the door, and as he did I caught a glimpse of the smooth skin of his muscular stomach. The air left my lungs so fast I felt light-headed. Even covered up under jeans and a sweatshirt, I couldn’t take my eyes off of his Adonis-like form. Only sixteen? His shoulders were thick and very pronounced. As he turned around, I determined that he was as attractive from the back as the front. His waist was narrow and his thighs looked big and powerful under his faded jeans. I looked back down to my hands, trying to breathe, and ignored everyone else in the room.

  Gavin helped Mitch out of his coat and hung it up, then picked him up, tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and headed out of the room. “Mitch and I are going to watch a movie. Want to join us, Maggie?” he asked, grinning at me.

  My intent was to sound cool and in control when I answered, but the instant we made eye contact I achieved neither and drew the attention of everyone. To the sound of snickering, I giggled and breathlessly wheezed out, “Oh ... um ... I uh ... um ... sure.”

  Meeting Gavin was the most incredibly surprising thing about my first two weeks in Arkansas. He visited me several times after that. He was so kind and funny—and the most … beautiful … handsome … unreal human being I’d ever seen. Each of his visits left me breathless and daydreaming. After the snow melted, he showed up to take Mitch and me for a ride. I jumped at the chance to get away from the Weald—and away from the sensation of being watched by something hidden in the trees that ringed the cottage.

  When we walked out, Gavin was leaning against a small, very sleek looking sports car—a medium blue metallic coupe with chrome wire wheels and a caramel-colored leather interior. It was definitely an antique, and that captivated Mitch. It had chrome vents in the fenders, behind the front wheels, and a trident in the middle of the grill. It wasn’t the kind of car I expected Gavin would drive—in my daydreams, I imagined a sleek red Ferrari—but this car was somehow perfect. It was elegant, gorgeous and athletic, all at the same time.

  Smallish inside, Gavin barely fit. A plaque on the steering wheel had a trident in it like the one on the grill, but I had no idea what kind of car it was. I guessed European. As we drove toward town, Gavin told us that it was a 1961 Maserati 3500 GTi two-plus-two, whatever any of that meant. I just knew that within moments Mitch became Gavin’s biggest fan. Well, second biggest.

  The back seat was tiny, just big enough for a backpack—or an eight-year-old—and the car made a lot more noise than I was used to as it whined through its first gear. But it was very cool. On the curvy road from the lake, the car took every bend like it rode on rails. Gavin changed gears, shifting up and down, like a seasoned veteran—even his driving was hot. He seemed to know exactly where to put the gears to keep the engine howling through every corner. It was exhilarating, and I felt ecstatic despite my desire to shut my eyes through each curve of the winding road.

  “You’re sixteen? How did you get so good at driving?” I asked over the engine howl.

  “I’m just a natural, I guess. I love driving a great car.”

  “And speaking of that, who buys a sixteen-year-old an antique Maserati?”

  “Dad bought it for me at an auction in Denmark last year, just before we moved back.” He smiled, downshifting as we entered a tight corner. “He had one when he was younger. The Italians, Maggie, are the best at building a car with soul,” he said as he accelerated out of the corner.

  “Could you teach me to drive?” I was so caught up in the moment that I didn’t even know what I was asking until I heard the words escape my mouth.

  “I’d be happy to,” he said. A devastating half-grin formed on his smooth, full lips.

  “Oh no way,” Mitch protested. “You’re gonna let her drive this?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Aren’t parts for Maseratis hard to find in Arkansas,” Mitch said before giggling.

  I really liked Gavin. I couldn’t close my eyes without seeing his perfect straight nose, the way it angled away from his masculine brow, his deep chocolate eyes, and those long, thick eyelashes. His baritone laugh rang in my head whenever I pictured his seductive half-smile. And those dimples!

  I tried flirting with him several times, but he was oblivious. Maybe it was because he’d lived in Europe. Perhaps he was accustomed to more sophisticated girls. Maybe I could learn French and speak with an accent. I could look at him with big, pouty lips and dramatic eyes and say, “Eye thinque eye aim cap-t-vay-ted wit chooo, my dar-el-ling.” I laughed at myself because that didn’t sound at all like a French accent.

  “Get a grip! You’re stuck head-first in a cave, speaking with a bad accent … to impress a guy?” The sound of my own muffled voice startled me. But if it were his arms wrapped around me in the darkness instead of the cold rock of the tunnel, I wouldn’t want to be found. And I wouldn’t mind being short of breath so much. I wouldn’t care that I was…

  With nothing else to focus on, I cackled. The entire situation was so absurd, so genuinely funny that I couldn’t help it. Did I use up all the oxygen? I wondered if I was in shock, or delirium, or whatever else might result from oxygen deprivation. You’re laughing because this is funny, stupid.

  After a few breaths, I decided the air was fine. Finally more relaxed, I felt certain I could get out of the hole—I was a fighter. I’d fight for it like I always did in my swim meets. Then I started laughing for another reason—I’d always taken pride in my gracefulness, another blessing from my mother, never imagining that I would fall face-first into a small hole in the bottom of a cave. On top of that, I’d most likely have to wait hours for someone to pull me out like some lost kitten from a well. Mom, Dad, Mitch … they would never let me live this down. I laughed out loud, causing more pain in my ribs. Okay, I’ve ve had enough of this. I want out … now.

  “Okay cave,” I demanded as loud as I could, “let go of me!” I imagined the rock walls loosening their tight grip on my pinned body.

  As soon as the image crossed my mind, the large stone that pinned me moved—very smoothly, but quickly. Disoriented and terrified, I had no idea what happened. A cave-in, maybe? An earthquake? Within a second or two, the rocks that held me in place … well … let go. As they did—with a deep grinding sound that I felt more than heard—I slid a little further down, ending up on my side next to the flashlight. A push of the switch as I grasped it brought the beam back to life.

  Every nerve in my body tingled, and my muscles strained to stretch in response to their new freedom. I was so happy to be loose—like coming to the surface of the pool after a race—that the sensation of air filling my lungs and swelling my chest sent my mind into sweet ecstasy. The feeling didn’t last long, though—I was still in a cave. I tried to understand what happened, but couldn’t make sense of it. I got to my feet, shifting my backpack into place behind me, and watched in disbelief as the floor of the cave leveled out. Each time I blinked I expected to find myself back in the hole when my eyes reopened. I immediately wondered whether any of it was real or just some bad dream. Running my fingers under my cap, I felt the knot on the back of my head and cringed from the stabbing pain I felt there.

  “I must be awake, but…”

  The chamber grew much larger as the floor shifted. While I watched, the floor I stood on descended down the walls, finally st
opping at least twenty-five feet below the entrance to the cavern. My only way of escape was suddenly way out of reach.

  “What? No stairs to climb out?” I said, needling the cave. But I pictured a staircase in my head.

  Once again, as before, stones began to move. They came out of the wall beneath the opening, one above another, forming stairs. A breath caught in my throat, and I stepped backwards into another wall with a thud.

  “Of course, that makes complete sense,” I said, dumbfounded, unable to believe anything my eyes told my brain.

  It took a moment for everything to soak in. Though I knew I should’ve been terrified, I felt only mind-numbing disbelief. I sat down on the floor and wrapped my arms around my body. While part of my mind said get the heck out of here as fast as you can, the rest wanted only to enjoy finally being able to fill my lungs.

  “Thank you!” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” replied a deep voice from somewhere in the darkness.

  FOUR

  SARA

  I shuddered and scanned the room. Good lord, what next?

  “There is nobody here,” I whispered. I felt certain it was just my mind playing tricks on me—probably too much blood in my head from spending so much time upside down. My watch said 11:03 am. I had spent nearly an hour-and-a-half in the hole. A rational person would “high tail it” as Aunt May would say. I nearly did. Over the past hour, I hadn’t even thought about the reason I came to the cave in the first place. But then I saw it.

  Highlighted by the narrow beam of the flashlight, I saw what appeared to be the Earth sign, the very thing I’d been looking for. Carved into the wall, the sign had been hidden by the stone floor.

  “Of course, that makes sense, too,” I said sarcastically. “I should have known the secret sign would be hidden under the Temple of Doom sliding floor.” But how did Aunt May know? Some of the strange things she had shared with me began to ricochet around my mind.