Spellcrossed

by Barbara Ashford

  Rowan gazed skyward. “We have a little time left. Let’s rest here for a few minutes.”

  We scraped our boots against a rock by the doorway before traipsing inside. The first time I’d entered the cottage, I’d shuddered to imagine Rowan living in this gloomy little room. After slogging through the woods, I was just grateful to slump onto one of the benches flanking the wooden table.

  Rowan unearthed supplies from his knapsack: a plastic bottle of lemonade, a crusty loaf of bread, a bunch of grapes, a hunk of cheese. He retrieved crockery plates and cups from the hutch near the open fireplace and laid them on the table as well. Then he took a bone-handled knife from a drawer and sliced off cheese and bread for us.

  Daddy stoically shoveled food into his mouth. I picked at the grapes. Rowan studied me. Desperate to break the silence, I asked, “Is the portal nearby?”

  “Not far,” Rowan said evasively.

  “Has it always been here? In these woods?”

  “It’s not a physical place, Maggie. The Fae can open a portal anywhere.”

  “Then why did we come all the way out here?”

  “Opening a portal leaves traces of energy behind, no matter how carefully I seal it. Although they fade quickly, it would be unwise to draw attention to the theatre or Janet’s house. And since my power is weaker than most of my kind, I have to choose a place where all four elements are present—earth, air, fire, and water.”

  We lapsed into silence again. When Daddy finished eating, Rowan carefully wrapped the remaining food in linen napkins. As he reached for the backpack, Daddy said, “I’ll do that.”

  “All right. And then we’d better be going.”

  Rowan slung Daddy’s guitar across his back and walked outside. Panic quickened my pulse as I hurried after him.

  “Can’t I go just a little farther with you?”

  “No. And I want you to promise not to follow us.” When I hesitated, he added, “I don’t want to use my power to keep you here. I’ll need all of it to open the portal. But if you won’t give me your word—”

  “I’ll stay.”

  His arms came around me. “I know you want to be with him. But it’s safer this way.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded. Daddy emerged from the cottage with his pack on his shoulders, and I swallowed again.

  As many times as I had imagined this moment, I’d never come up with the right words of farewell. How do you say good-bye to a father you barely know but whose presence has been with you every day of your life?

  As I groped for something to say, Rowan reached into the pocket of his jeans.

  “I meant to give this to Maggie one day. But I think you need it more.”

  He thrust his fist toward Daddy and opened his fingers. I gasped when I saw the gold ring in his palm. Daddy backed away, shaking his head.

  “Take it,” Rowan said brusquely. “There are markings on it my clan will recognize. It might ensure your welcome.”

  “Or they might think I stole it.”

  “My chief warded it against theft. They’ll know it came to you as a gift.”

  I gazed at the ring of faery gold—the ring Rowan had surely meant to give me on our wedding day. With shaking fingers, I plucked it from his palm. The ring was warm from his body and seemed oddly heavy for such a small circlet of gold, but if there were markings on it, they were too small—or too magical—for me to see.

  Rowan’s sweet smile brought on a fresh upwelling of tears. I blinked them back and held the ring out to my father. He slid it onto his pinkie, grunting a bit as he wiggled it over the swollen knuckle. Then we just stared at each other.

  “I’m lousy at good-byes,” he said. “But you know that.”

  “I wanted to buy you a gift. Like the staff did. Something to remember me by.”

  “Do you think I could ever forget you?”

  They might make him forget. They might banish every memory he had of this world, including our years in Wilmington and these last two months.

  “I just wish I had something to give you.”

  “Oh, Maggie. You’ve already given me so much.”

  Our embrace was clumsy, the stupid backpack making it hard for me to hold him. Finally, I wriggled my hands beneath it so I could hug him. Even after two months, he was still so thin I could feel every rib.

  “Be happy, Magpie.”

  He wrenched free, staggering a little from the weight of the backpack. Rowan took his arm to steady him. Then he led my father away.

  The leaves squelched obscenely as they walked across the glade. I swiped my fists across my eyes and followed the bobbing red backpack as it moved deeper into the woods.

  I should have told him to be happy. I should have begged him to be safe.

  I should have assured him that these last two months have been a gift. I should have promised him that he would always have a home at the Crossroads.

  I should have asked if he had a message for Mom. I should have asked him to stay.

  The backpack was just a red spot among the trees, as small as Rudolph’s nose on those silly pajamas.

  I should have told him that I loved him.

  The red spot grew brighter as Daddy walked into a patch of sunlight. As I opened my mouth to call to him, it vanished.

  Oh, God…

  Something gleamed in the sunlight. A tiny spark no bigger than a firefly.

  The ring. He must have turned back to look at me one last time. He must be waving good-bye.

  I ran to the edge of the glade, waving frantically as I shouted, “I love you, Daddy!”

  The spark disappeared. For just an instant, I glimpsed that spot of red. Then it, too, was gone.

  Had he heard me? If not, Rowan would tell him what I had said. I tried to take comfort in that as I trudged back to the cottage.

  I wiped off the cups and the plates and returned them to the hutch. Screwed the cap back on the bottle of lemonade and returned it to Rowan’s knapsack. Found a broom in one corner and tried to sweep the drying mud from the floor. I looked around for another task—anything to keep busy—and spied something on the bed that interrupted the patchwork pattern of the quilt.

  Even in the gloom, I made out the moose-headed cows. The T-shirt had been carefully folded and obviously left for Rowan. Daddy must have placed it there while we were outside.

  I frowned when I saw a dark smudge on one corner of the shirt. As I attempted to brush it away, I touched something hard. Wood, I realized, as my fingers curled around it. I carried it to the doorway, seeking more light, but the glade was as shadowy as the cottage.

  I fumbled around the hutch, feeling along shelves and opening drawers until I found a box of matches. I lit two candles and carried them over to the table. Then I sat down to examine the mysterious object.

  It was a model of a bird—a crow judging by the black substance that covered most of its body. Too dull and rough to be paint. Charcoal, perhaps. Was it some sort of protective talisman he had carved in the Borderlands to ward off the Crow-Men?

  The body had been worn smooth. Only the grooves of the tail feathers were faintly discernible under my fingertips. The charcoal had chipped away on the wings and belly, leaving patches of bare wood. I stroked the belly gently, then frowned at the smudges I left behind and the white residue on my fingertips. Chalk?

  Even then, it took another moment for me to grasp the truth.

  Not a crow. A black-and-white bird, carefully carved, carefully painted with whatever materials he could find, and carefully preserved for decades to remind him of the child he had left behind.

  His Magpie.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, sobbing. Minutes, probably, although it seemed like hours. Finally, I rose and wiped my face with the same towel I had used to clean the dishes. Then I carried the magpie back to the bed and set it atop the T-shirt.

  As I turned away, I noticed something pale peeking out from under the bed. I crouched down and picked it up.

  The photograph must have slippe
d out of his backpack when he set out his gifts. I had to hold it close to the candles to determine that it was the faded picture of Mom and me, the photo he had carried for more than twenty years, preserved just as carefully as the magpie.

  I ran out of the cottage and plunged into the woods, shouting Rowan’s name. He would open the portal at sunset. There was still time to reach them. There had to be.

  I skidded into a tree trunk and clung to it for a moment, gasping. The shadows under the trees were too thick to risk running. One misstep might bring the disaster of a twisted ankle, a wrenched knee. But my mind screamed at me to hurry.

  I shoved the photo in the back pocket of my shorts. If I dropped it, if I lost it…

  Don’t think about that. Just keep moving.

  I clawed my way up a slope, slipping and sliding on wet pine needles. At the top, I paused, trying to get my bearings. The sky was a deeper blue now, but up ahead, the trees thinned, and the light was brighter. All I could do was follow the dying sun.

  I sidestepped down the slope, reeling from one tree trunk to another to keep from falling. When the ground leveled out, I quickened my pace. I forced myself to ignore the sharp stitch in my side, to concentrate on the next step and the next and the next after that. If I thought about my father vanishing from this world before I could reach him, the panic would rise like bile.

  I searched the shadows for tree roots that might trap a foot, vines that could ensnare an ankle. But still, I tripped over something hidden under the leaves.

  Pain lanced through my wrists as I tried to break my fall. My cry was cut off as I bellyflopped onto the ground. Precious seconds ticked away while I lay there, panting. Only when the cold dampness penetrated my T-shirt did I drag my forearms through the muck and use them to leverage myself onto my knees.

  The light through the trees was now a rich orange-gold. The twittering of the birds grew louder as they saluted the sunset. But even their chorus failed to drown out the sound of splashing water.

  I gave a hoarse croak of laughter when I realized how close I had come to sliding headfirst into the stream. I’d made so much noise crashing through the woods that I had failed to hear it. For once, my clumsiness had served me. Rowan needed water to open his portal and this stream meandered through the thin screen of saplings. Between them, I could make out the undulating line of the distant hills, dark against the bright stripes of the rose-colored clouds.

  I staggered to my feet and clambered along the muddy bank, ignoring my sodden clothes and the cold that made my teeth chatter and the sharp throb of pain in my left wrist. As I neared the saplings, I opened my mouth to shout Rowan’s name.

  A hill blurred, and I blinked to clear my vision. But it wasn’t the hill or my vision. It was the air just beyond the trees, roiling and churning as if caught in a whirlpool.

  The whirlpool shuddered. A sliver of light cracked open the sky like a lightning bolt. But the lightning was golden. As golden as a cloud of fireflies.

  The rough bark of a tree beneath my fingers. The golden light blessing my eyes. The stream laughing as it tumbled over the hillside, past a small outcropping of rock below me, past a man with his arms upraised and another with a red pack and a guitar.

  A rainbow shimmered in the air where the dying rays of the sun sliced across the thin cascade of water. A warm breeze caressed my face, carrying with it the dizzying aromas of roses and honeysuckle, ripe berries and sweet grass. And glorious birdsong that shamed the pitiful chirps from the treetops.

  And music…

  High-pitched and silvery, like the rippling glissando of a harp.

  And singing…

  The sweetest of harmonies, augmented by a deep vibration that pulsed through me like a second heartbeat. So might crystals sound if they could sing. So might the heart of the world sound if it could beat. Add one voice, change one thread of the song, and it would be diminished.

  Then the chorus swelled, and as beautiful as it had seemed before, this was the sound of perfection. I yearned to be part of it, to blend forever in the pure, glorious, aching joy of that song.

  Another rainbow, more beautiful than the first, growing out of the shelf of rock, arcing toward the portal of golden light where stars now danced like fireflies. A rainbow bridge, shimmering with otherworldly brilliance, pulsating with the steady tattoo of that heartbeat.

  The man with the red pack places his foot on the bridge. His giddy laughter shivers through me and I laugh with him.

  And suddenly, I am scrambling down the rocky hillside, slipping through the waterfall’s spray, leaping onto the shelf of rock, running past the man with the upraised arms, running after the lucky one on the rainbow bridge.

  “Maggie!”

  My steps falter. I know that voice. It comes from behind me, so it must belong to the man with the upraised arms.

  The man on the bridge hesitates and looks back. I know that face. But it is so much older than I remember.

  The music urges me onward. The golden light fills my eyes. But another power rips through my chest, cleaving heart and spirit alike.

  “Maggie! Please!”

  The man and the bridge blur just as the hill did.

  “Run, Jack!”

  Something is wrong. Even the golden light seems to sense it for the stars are winking out one by one.

  The man on the bridge starts running toward the light. I have to stop him. There is something I have to do, something I have to give him.

  “Maggie!”

  Three times, he has called my name. Three times for a charm. Where did I learn that?

  Warmth enfolds me. A breeze kisses my cheeks. The scent of lavender fills my nostrils.

  “Rowan will always carry you in his heart. We all will. Remember that, my dear. And know that you will always have a home at the Crossroads.”

  The breeze whips my hair across my eyes, obscuring the rainbow bridge and the flickering portal and the golden light of Faerie.

  “Goddamn it, Maggie! Don’t you give up on us!” that broken voice shouts.

  The siren call of the music beckons me. The sweetest music I will ever hear in my life.

  I cover my ears to block it out. And then I turn my back on Faerie and stumble into Rowan’s arms.

  FINALE AND CURTAIN CALLS

  CHAPTER 50

  YOU ARE MY HOME

  I WAKE TO THE BLARE OF A CAR HORN. I cannot understand why the skylights have disappeared. Then I remember: I am in the guest room of Alison’s home in Delaware.

  I relax when I sense Maggie’s presence somewhere in the house. I barely remember stumbling inside yesterday evening, nor when I have ever slept through an entire night. Hardly surprising after that hellish car ride.

  Pale slivers of sunlight leak between the panels of fabric at the far end of the room. I realize now that they cover a sliding glass door. How strange that my bedroom in this house has one, too.

  I slip on my dressing gown, pad over to the doors, and fumble in the gloom for a cord. The blinds ratchet open, treating me to a depressing vista: a grid of asphalt; a collection of narrow townhouses, and a fortresslike structure that must be the hospital. I spy a patch of green that might be grass, but no trees anywhere. Still, sunlight slants through the warren of buildings; we will have a nice day for the wedding.

  I pull open the door and am greeted by the reek of car exhaust and gasoline and garbage. A blessing for humans that their senses are so muffled; how else could they stand to live here?

  I shove the door closed and sink onto the bed. My muscles ache from vomiting, my stomach—my whole body—a hollowed-out shell. That I survived at all is due largely to Maggie’s new convertible.

  When she suggested buying one, I pictured a long, sleek automobile with fins or one of those sporty little roadsters driven by international playboys and middle-aged men seeking to reclaim their youth. Our car is rather stumpy. But Maggie quoted a lot of initials that apparently proved it was a sound purchase in spite of its horrifying price.

&n
bsp; I made it through Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New York with only mild queasiness and windburn. Then we reached New Jersey.

  The rain forced us to put up the roof. After that, we had to pull over every fifteen or twenty miles. I now have the dubious distinction of vomiting at every rest stop and exit on the southbound side of the New Jersey Turnpike. Doubtless, on our return trip, I will become acquainted with those on the northbound side, although Maggie has suggested another route that will allow me to see the “scenic” parts of the state.

  I will have to take her word that they exist. After marveling at the incredible sprawl of New York City, I recall little of New Jersey other than that endless highway studded by giant signs advertising dating services, insurance companies, and an adult club. And an airport where the giant planes soared so low that I feared they would land atop us. The roar of their engines made me shudder as much as the car.

  I force myself to my feet. After mistakenly stumbling into a closet, I discover the bathroom next door. I have to use a washcloth to turn on the nozzles in the shower, but the hot water revives me. As I reach for the shower curtain, I feel her entering the bathroom.

  She perches on the toilet seat, still dressed in her long flannel nightgown and slippers. A steaming cup rests on the sink’s faux marble countertop. I breathe in the scent of ginger that rises from the cup and from Maggie’s body.

  Her gaze sweeps over me, and a quiet smile blossoms on her face—the same smile with which she greeted me when she awoke in my bed. A night and a day after that mad dash through the woods with Maggie’s body cradled in my arms and her blood bathing my hand. A night and a day after she looked onto Faerie and I thought I had lost her.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  Like the discarded carapace of a cicada.

  “Hungry.”

  “I’ll make you some scrambled eggs and toast after you get dressed.”

  As she turns to leave, I climb out of the tub, carry her hand to my lips, and press a kiss to her palm.

  “I love you,” I tell her, as I have every morning since she returned to me.