Spellcrossed

by Barbara Ashford

The Borderlands?

  “I like the little house. They can’t see me there.”

  “They can’t see you here, either. You know why?”

  A long silence. “Because they’re in the Borderlands?”

  “That’s right. Now wouldn’t you like to come out and have some cake with Maggie and Reinhard?”

  “No. I’ll eat my cake here.”

  “After I turn on the lights.”

  “I want it now!”

  “Jack!” For the first time, Rowan’s voice was sharp. It drew another whimper from my unseen father.

  “For God’s sake, just give him the cake,” I said.

  “Let me handle this, Maggie.”

  Unwanted memories assailed me.

  “Get off my stage. Now!”

  “You have no right to do this!”

  “Don’t tell me how to direct.”

  “You’re not directing. You’re bullying him!”

  Rushing to Nick’s defense had helped bring about the confrontation that had made him walk out of Carousel. But it required all of my self-control—and Reinhard’s firm grip on my shoulders—to keep me from rushing to my father.

  Rowan turned the dimmer switch and the track lights above the bank of stereo equipment bloomed with soft golden light, enough to make out the kitchen: Daddy’s guitar resting against the refrigerator; a beat-up red backpack beside it; a chair, lying on the floor; clumps of cake strewn among the shards of china. And my father, huddled under the dining table.

  “Cake?” he prompted hopefully as Rowan walked toward the kitchen.

  “After I clean up this mess.”

  “I’ll do it,” I volunteered, eager for some task that might distract me.

  “I’m already filthy. Why don’t you clear off some space on the table? Sit, Reinhard. You’ve had a long night.”

  “We all have,” Reinhard replied as he sank heavily onto a chair.

  Rowan had clearly raided the green room fridge. A half-empty bottle of lemonade sat on the table, along with an unopened bottle of iced tea and plastic containers filled with leftover cookies and veggie sticks. The slab of sheet cake bore a legend in red piping gel that read “ulations, Cast of An.”

  I moved everything to the counter and pulled plates and glasses out of the cabinets. Reinhard refused food, but accepted iced tea. I poured three glasses of lemonade; the only iced tea Daddy would ever drink was Mom’s. Steeped for hours in that chipped brown pitcher. He’d always teased her that only a weightlifter could pick it up.

  I set the plates down a little harder than I’d intended.

  “Cake?” a plaintive voice inquired.

  “In a minute,” Rowan replied.

  As he dumped the mess in the garbage can, I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie and thrust it under the table. I heard a startled squeak. Then the cookie was snatched out of my fingers.

  “Cookie!” my father crowed in Cookie Monster’s gravelly voice.

  Another flood of memories: Daddy sitting on the floor, growling, “Cookie, cookie, cookie!” while I danced around him, holding it just out of reach. His arms waving futilely, then suddenly pulling me into his lap. My delighted laughter. His unintelligible words as he shoved the cookie into his mouth. My mother protesting that he was getting crumbs everywhere.

  “Me want another cookie!”

  “Me want a bottle of Laphroaig,” Rowan muttered, slumping onto the chair opposite Reinhard.

  “Cookie, cookie, cookie!”

  “Jack…” Rowan said, a warning note in his voice.

  A pause. Then: “Cake?”

  Rowan lowered his head onto his hands. Reinhard frowned. I laughed—a little hysterically judging from their concerned looks.

  “You have had enough sugar,” Reinhard said. “But you may have some vegetable sticks.”

  “Vegetables?” my father wailed.

  I laughed again. I really had entered The Twilight Zone. With Rowan and Reinhard serving as stand-ins for my parents and my father reverting to the role of child—easily frightened, often entertaining, and difficult to pacify. Leaving me the thankless role of the daughter who could not be acknowledged, the helping professional who didn’t know how to help.

  My laughter caught in my throat. Rowan gripped my left arm. Reinhard clamped down on my right. I pressed my lips together and clenched my fists in my lap.

  Something tugged at the hem of my dress. A moment later, a tentative hand patted my knee.

  “It’s all right,” my father whispered. “You don’t have to eat the vegetables if you don’t want to.”

  I sat there, shaking silently, until their power calmed me. And all the while, my father’s gentle fingers patted my knee.

  The first time I had felt his touch since I was eight years old.

  I seized a napkin and blew my nose. Reinhard pushed back his chair and announced, “I think it is time for us to go home.”

  Daddy’s fingers gripped the hem of my dress. “You go. Maggie can stay.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I promised. “With breakfast.”

  “Breakfast!”

  “Eggs and bacon and English muffins and orange juice,” I said, reciting our traditional Sunday morning menu.

  “Thomas’. Not the store brand.”

  “Of course Thomas’. The store brand never has the good—”

  “Nooks and crannies.”

  How many times had he lectured my poor mother about that when she was just trying to save a buck by buying the cheaper brand?

  “So is it okay if I go now? I am pretty tired.” The understatement of the year. “And you must be, too.”

  The fingers relaxed their grip. Regretfully, I pushed back my chair.

  “Are you going to come out,” Rowan asked, “and say good night to Maggie and Reinhard?”

  “I can say good night from here.”

  “Well, you have to come out eventually.”

  “Why?”

  “You can’t sleep under the table.”

  “They’ll never think to look for me here.”

  Rowan crouched down. “Jack. They’re not looking for you.”

  “Just in case.”

  I crouched beside Rowan and said, “We could put cushions on the floor. And bring a pillow and a quilt.”

  Daddy surveyed his prospective sleeping quarters with a frown. “My feet’ll stick out. If they see them—”

  “We’ll drape a sheet over the table. Like—”

  “A tent!” he exclaimed. “I used to do that with my little girl. Her name’s Maggie, too. But I call her Magpie ’cause she talks a blue streak.”

  Unwilling to trust my voice, I simply nodded.

  “We used the dining room table. It was much bigger than this,” he informed Rowan loftily. “We’d crawl inside with books and toys…and sometimes, a plate of cookies.” He flashed a beguiling smile.

  “You are not going to wheedle more cookies out of me,” Rowan replied, unbeguiled.

  “Rowan and Reinhard will make up the tent. I’ll show you where the bathroom is.”

  Daddy craned his neck to peer up at the skylights. “But what if they see me?”

  “They won’t if we run.”

  “They won’t see you at all!” Rowan exclaimed. “They can’t find you here!”

  “Not if we run quick like a bunny!” Daddy said.

  “Quick like a bunny, Magpie. That way, the gnomes’ll never catch us!”

  “We’ll let Rowan go first so he can put a candle in the bathroom. When he gives us the signal, we’ll run. Okay?”

  Daddy nodded. Rowan sighed and stalked off.

  Long minutes ticked by. Daddy grew increasingly restive, his questions more panicked. Finally, I hurried into the bedroom and found Rowan standing before his armoire, barely visible in the flickering candlelight.

  “What is it? He’s getting nervous.”

  Rowan slowly closed the doors to the armoire. “No toothbrushes, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll pick up whatever you nee
d tomorrow.”

  Rowan nodded and walked over to the small chest under the eaves. When he just stood there, staring down at it, I edged around him, yanked open the top, and unearthed a neat pile of bedding and a pillow.

  “Put the candle in the bathroom, okay?” I hesitated, trying to make sense of his queer expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “Just very tired all of sudden.”

  I pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and hurried back to my father.

  “Ready?” I held out my hand and smiled as he clasped it. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”

  Hand in hand, we sprinted through the apartment. Daddy scurried into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. I paced the bedroom until the door eased open again. We shared another ten seconds of handholding during our return sprint. Then he scrambled under the sheet.

  “A pillow…” he sighed.

  How long since he’d rested his head on one?

  “Will you wait for me downstairs?” Rowan asked quietly. “It won’t take me long to get him to sleep.”

  With a final longing glance at the tent, I followed Reinhard out of the apartment.

  We slowly descended the stairs. As the uncomfortable silence lengthened, I said, “He’ll be fine. After he settles in.”

  “He needs a doctor’s care, Maggie.”

  “A doctor would lock him in a psych ward, pump him full of meds, and spend years trying to convince him that he’d imagined all of this. Maybe he’s confused and frightened, but he’s not delusional.”

  “I know you love him, child. And I know you believe Rowan is a miracle worker. But there are some miracles even Rowan cannot achieve.”

  “How do we know until we try? We have to try! Doesn’t he deserve the chance to lead a normal life?”

  “Locked up in that apartment with Rowan for months? For years, perhaps? This is the kind of life you want for him? For both of them?”

  “He’ll get better.”

  “But he will never be as he was. That man is gone, Maggie. Can you accept that?”

  Rowan’s arrival spared me from answering.

  “He’s asleep?” I asked.

  Rowan nodded. “He’s exhausted.”

  “So are you,” Reinhard said. “When did you last eat?”

  “Yesterday. I think. Jack finished the last of the food this morning. That’s why I had to bring him here tonight. Helen…we always kept snacks in the green room refrigerator.”

  “Cake and cookies,” Reinhard said with a disapproving frown.

  “I know. But after all he’s been through…”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “Let it wait, Maggie. Just until tomorrow.”

  “Rowan is right. Your father is alive. He is safe. As for what happens next…”

  “I won’t let you send him away!”

  “Our return affects everyone on staff,” Rowan said. “And everyone deserves a say in…what happens next.”

  “I will call a meeting. For eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.” Reinhard frowned. “Bernie cannot be there. We cannot speak openly—”

  “Bernie?” Rowan interrupted. “Bernie Cohen?”

  “He has taken on Helen’s jobs—publicity and program.”

  “Bernie Cohen…back at the Crossroads…”

  “Yes. Well. I will deal with Bernie. Somehow. Can you leave Jack alone for an hour?”

  “If we hold the meeting in the green room or the Smokehouse. Somewhere close where I can feel him if he needs me.”

  “The Smokehouse, then. I will stop by before the meeting. I would like to examine him. He seems remarkably healthy, but—”

  “Would you stop arranging things?” I exclaimed. “I need to know what happened to him. Nothing you tell me will be as bad as what I imagine. Please.”

  Rowan and Reinhard exchanged glances. Then Reinhard sighed and nodded. Rowan led me over to Reinhard’s stage manager stool and eased me onto it.

  “I don’t know how long I searched for him in Faerie. Months, probably. None of the clans I visited had heard of any human who’d been adopted. And I couldn’t feel Jack’s energy. At first, I thought he might be too far away for me to sense. Then I realized I’d stupidly overlooked the obvious.”

  “The obvious?”

  “The older Fae can always sense when a human has breached the borders of Faerie. But none of the elders I spoke to had detected such an intrusion. That’s when I thought of the Borderlands. It’s a place between the worlds. A sort of…buffer zone.”

  His grim expression made me ask, “Is it…awful?”

  “Some of it is as beautiful as Faerie. But its magic is wilder. You can be walking through a darkened thicket at moonrise and suddenly find yourself on the brink of a sunlit precipice. Even time seems to follow no rules. That’s why it seemed that only a few months had passed while I was searching for him.”

  He hesitated, clearly reluctant to say more. Then he took a deep breath.

  “The Borderlands draw the darkest elements of Faerie. Guardians, we call them, for they keep out hapless trespassers from both worlds. But some use their power to lure the innocent and the foolish. Once inside the Borderlands, few manage to escape.”

  Until now, I’d been terrified about the ordeals my father must have undergone. Rowan’s haunted expression made me wonder what he’d had to endure in order to find him.

  “These…creatures,” Reinhard said. “Could they have followed you back here?”

  “No. I sealed the portal behind us and warded it against intruders.”

  “And Daddy?” I prompted. “How did he survive there for so long?”

  “Jack was no hapless trespasser. He had prepared for his crossing. He brought extra clothing, a medical kit, cooking utensils, a tarp—anything and everything he could fit into that backpack.”

  Mom protesting that we were only going away for the weekend and couldn’t possibly need everything he was stuffing into suitcases and carryalls and shopping bags. Daddy invariably responding, “Be prepared. That’s the Boy Scout motto.”

  “Once his food ran out, he hunted and fished. Gathered fruits and nuts and berries. Much as I did during my early years in this world. He hid from the dangers as best he could. And when he discovered that the magic was wilder in some places than others, he sought out the pockets of relative safety. Most of all, he clung to his memories. He read—and reread—the few books he’d brought. Recited his old theatre monologues. Sang show tunes. In spite of everything, I think he was relieved to find the Borderlands. To know that the things that had happened to him here were real. That he wasn’t crazy.”

  Lying in bed, listening to the muffled shouting. Cringing when I made out his words: “I am not losing my mind! I’m finally beginning to see things clearly!” Pretending to be fast asleep when Mom eased open my bedroom door to check on me.

  “I couldn’t leave him in the Borderlands. My clan would never accept a…damaged human. And if I’d taken him to Faerie, I knew I’d never convince him to leave.”

  No. He had sacrificed everything and everyone he loved in his search for Faerie. Once he found it, he would never give it up.

  “So I have thrust both of us upon you. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” I echoed. “You came back to me. You brought my father back. Nothing is more important than that.”

  Rowan’s sweet smile faded when he noticed Reinhard’s dubious expression.

  “Nothing,” I repeated firmly, “is more important than that.”

  ENTR’ACTE THE JOURNAL OF ROWAN MACKENZIE

  “Nothing is more important than that.”

  She loves me. After all this time, she still loves me. She is still my Maggie. As long as I have her, I can accept the rest. Even the loss of my theatre.

  Of course, no one expected me to return. Those empty wooden hangers in my armoire brought that home far more powerfully than their incredulous looks.

  At least they didn’t throw out the contents of my desk. I’ll ha
ve to ask Maggie to buy me a new journal. For tonight, I will make do with blank paper.

  If only my mind were equally blank.

  A nonprofit. Had I remained here, it could never have happened. Helen would not have allowed it. She knew I could play no role in a theatre where accountants issue paychecks to employees with Social Security numbers.

  Foolish to have expected everything to remain the same, to imagine that I could simply pick up the threads of my life again. Places change. People change. Even Maggie. She is stronger now, more confident about herself and her place in the world.

  What a colossal irony that she has taken my place.

  How could I have ever imagined that she would be content to be my assistant? But that was the play I wrote in my head. I would direct the shows. She would work with the actors, doing her list thing, helping them with their music. We’d work together and live together and love each other. We would give Jack a home and he would grow strong in mind and body.

  A pipe dream. The kind of happy ever after found in musicals.

  She is still my Maggie. But I am not the same Rowan Mackenzie. Can she really love a penniless beggar with nothing but the clothes on his back? A man as ill equipped to deal with this world as her poor damaged father?

  If only I had never left.

  If only I had given up the search sooner.

  I could have returned months ago. And faced Maggie without shame and told her without lying that I could not feel his presence in Faerie. I would still have my theatre and my life.

  My first completely unselfish act and look how it turned out.

  I mustn’t blame Jack. It was my choice to leave, my choice to search for him. He would not have been there in the first place had I protected him all those years ago.

  I failed him then. I will not do so now.

  The staff will let us stay. Maggie will insist on it. And when Maggie Graham digs in her heels, she is as immovable as the Green Mountains.

  And then?

  I must help Jack heal.

  I must help Maggie succeed.

  I must find a new purpose, a new life, a new place in this world, just as I did more than two hundred years ago.

  And never allow Maggie to suspect how much that prospect terrifies me.

  ACT TWO