by I.D. Blind
17. Magic Ink
Eric was waiting for Electra at the wooden bridge, glancing at his watch every other minute. What if she doesn’t come? he kept thinking. But at two o’clock, she appeared atop a stallion, its mane grey and braided.
“Tell me more about Hollow,” he asked when they were sitting by the bank of the river. “Why is it divided into two sides?”
Her smile faded away and she looked at the babbling water. “Would you like to see a trick?”
Eric nodded.
“I’m not supposed to show this, but I’m sure you won’t tell anyone.” Electra stretched her hand to the flowers, and a butterfly landed into her open palm. She gently clasped her fingers, waited, then unclasped her fist. Five large butterflies fluttered their wings in the air and scattered over the meadow. Eric laughed, trying to figure out how she did it. It had either been a very good trick, or magic.
“Are you a sorceress?”
Electra chuckled. “We’re called differently.”
“Fairies?”
She giggled. “Think better.”
Laughing, Eric rubbed the edges of her long hair, then pushed a red lock behind her ear.
Dinah.
Her name exploded in his head. Why was he thinking about Dinah now? He went on a walk with her yesterday…
“What’s wrong?”
Eric shook his head. “Nothing. Show me more.”
Electra stretched her hand to the river and moved it slowly up and down. Water rose into the air and thickened beneath her palm. “Look up,” she said, lying down on the grass. Eric lay beside her and looked up at the water dancing above their heads. Electra drew an invisible line in the air, and the water repeated the move, leaving a trail of airborne droplets. Gaping, Eric lifted up his hand, but the water didn’t obey him. Electra put her palm over his, and together they began to draw patterns in the air. She squeezed his hand and scribbled something, and the water formed letters above their heads:
E R I C
“Unbelievable. How do you do this? Can this be learned?”
“Some things you can, but it’s not easy; magic requires concentration and hard work.”
“Could you teach me? Teach me magic, and I’ll teach you to play the guitar.”
“That could be a nice addition to my musical skills.”
“Really? How many instruments do you play?”
“Let me think. Piano, violin, flute, bodhrán—”
“No way! How old are you?”
“Seventeen in May.”
“And when have you managed to learn it all? I never have enough time.”
“Indeed? You know, many musicians had the same amount of time that you have—24 hours a day.”
“Ah, condemnation!”
“Just offering advice about spending the time more wisely. You know, we can’t take it back.”
“So, will you teach me magic? Or is this some sort of family secret?”
Electra was about to answer when someone called her by her name. They turned to the voice, and the water in the air splashed over their faces. Electra shrieked.
“Side effects?” Eric said through laughter.
“I was distracted.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her wet face.
Cassandra approached the duo astride a horse. “El, we’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said, staring at Eric.
“Hi.” Eric waved to her.
Cassandra hesitantly waved back. Electra got up. “This is my sister, Cassandra. Cassie, this is Eric.” She turned to Eric. “I have to go.”
“When shall we meet again?”
Electra opened a leather bag hanging from her saddle, and pulled out a package wrapped in paper.
“I brought this for you. There are paper, a quill pen, and ink inside the package. Tonight, at eleven sharply, take the paper out and read it,” she whispered in his ear.
Eric watched her until she and her sister were out of sight. He went home, and again had to lie to Albert about where he had been. Eric wondered what was going to happen when his uncle found out where he had been going. He was sure the punishment would follow quickly, and since Eric was already out of the age when one was put in a corner, he’d probably be sent home. He didn’t want to leave Hollow. Someday he’d have to return home, but there was still time until the end of the winter.
He met Dinah in the evening. She was beautiful as always, but he thought about how cold and distant she seemed at times. There was envy in her eyes when they were near the river. After staring at the other side of the Sirtalion, she began to throw pebbles at the flowers and trees on the West Bank. When the boats on the river started taking passengers, she asked Eric to take a ride with her, but he refused, using the cold as an excuse. The time was approaching and he had a thing to do at eleven. He went to his room, sat by the window and stared at the forest.
At night, the forest looked ominous. It was no longer brightly colored. There were no orange leaves, no yellow-green grass. There was only one color—black. Black trees, shrubs, and their black shadows. Sometimes it seemed that deep in the forest a silvery light glimmered, but as soon as Eric squinted at it, the light instantly disappeared.
The clock struck eleven. Eric opened the package and looked at the paper. It was clean except where his name was written on the upper edge. Why did Electra tell him to look at the paper at exactly eleven? Maybe she wanted to make fun of him? But what was the point of the joke?
Blots appeared on the sheet, or so it seemed at first. Looking closely, Eric distinguished small, handwritten letters. He was sure that a second ago the paper was clean, without a trace of ink. He brought the sheet closer to his eyes.
“Eric?” was written in beautiful letters.
He read his name almost a hundred times, convinced himself that his vision wasn’t deceiving him, then took his pen and wrote under the line:
“Yes.”
He counted the seconds: one, two, three, four... a new line appeared on the paper:
“Thought you fell asleep. What are you doing?”
“Electra, is that you?”
“Were you waiting for someone else?”
“I can’t believe this. I’m writing to you, and you’re answering. How do you do this?”
“I'm not doing anything; it's the ink. Use it sparingly.”
“Write in short words?”
“Yes.”
Eric sniggered. Reclining on the bed, he was sending her messages from the other side of the town and getting delighted after each received line.
“Shall I see you tomorrow?”
“At four, at the bus stop,” she wrote, and bade goodbye.
He was an hour early, as always. She came out of a house nearby, with a wicker basket in her hand. When he hurried to meet her, she asked him to pass on the West Bank.
“Do you have to stay away from the East Bank all the time?”
“We avoid it as much as possible. But my Uncle is from the East Bank and has relatives there. I was visiting Mrs. Robinson. She’s sick and likes it when I read for her.”
“What have you got there?” Eric asked, peeking at the books in her basket.
“Today poetry. Mrs. Robinson and I love poetry.”
“Will you read for me?”
She shrugged with a smile.
“I like poetry, too.” He smiled back, letting small dimples appear on his cheeks.
After a bit of begging, Electra took one of the books, opened it to the page with a bookmark, and began to read:
“From thee, Eliza, I must go3,
And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee.
“Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part
to meet no more!
“But the latest throb that leaves my heart,
While Death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh!”
Eric listened in silence. Her voice was calm and soothing. And the poem was sad. It made him think about parting. He didn’t want to part with Hollow, and with the girl sitting next to him.
“Read something else,” he said, when Electra finished. She flipped through a few pages and read another poem:
“My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here4,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
“Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North
The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
“Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farwell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
“My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.”
They sat on the bench, reading poetry until the sun began to set behind the mountains. The last rays burned the thick branches of the far lone oak tree with orange light. For some time the clouds were still aglow with the weakening sunlight streaming above the horizon lost in purple and violet. Then the shadows gradually covered the bright moorland and the bench, banishing the remaining light from the spacious meadows. Hollow slowly sank into evening.
18. The Bard’s Song
The next two days Eric didn’t have a chance to meet with Electra, and as always resorted to the magic ink, hoping to arrange a meeting with the girl who didn’t leave his mind for a second. Electra promised to meet with him the following night if Eric would come to the wooden bridge. There was no way he would cancel the meeting. He’d be there even if he had to leave through the window in his bedroom to avoid giving an explanation to Uncle Albert.
“Bring the guitar. Good night,” Electra wrote in the end.
The night would have been good if not for the cries outside. The voices sounded from far away, and were so piercing and dreadful that the soul froze. Several times during the night Eric got out of bed and stood by the window. A peal of thunder boomed over the town, tearing the sky. Eric shut the window and stared into the dark emptiness, while the angry storm lashed out, pouring rain in loud torrents. He listened to the cries that were coming from the grisly forest and black hills. Silver lights were again teasing his curiosity and luring the imagination into the woods.
The next night, Eric at last entered that dark forest and looked at it from the inside.
“Today is the longest lunar eclipse.” Electra pointed at the sky. The moon’s round shell was covered by a black sphere. “We’re going into Mysterious Forest, to sit by the fire.”
Eric often wondered why the forest was named so, and what was so mysterious about it. The deeper they went, the foggier the road became. Electra asked Eric to stay close and warned him not to go after the lights that faded into the far mist. Eric walked in-between the bent trees enshrouded in a faint vapor. If Electra hadn’t been carrying a lamp, he would have taken the old oak for a stone troll, and the bushes for a wood goblin. The owls on the trees gazed at him. Sometimes the branches clung to his clothes, and Eric thought that it was intentional. Then he caught movement in the mist. Deep in the woods, surrounded by a grey cloud, dark silhouettes were making their way through the fog. Those were men in long cloaks with hoods; some of them wore capirots on their heads.
“Electra, look there. Who are they?”
“Come here.” She took his hand.
“But who are they? Monks? Wizards?”
Electra gazed at the ghostly shadows moving among the trees. She shook her head. “Let's go.”
Eric followed her, sometimes turning and looking at the silhouettes, wondering who they were and where they were going. Hollow had more secrets than he had imagined.
Electra’s sisters and friends were sitting around a small fire on a clearing. Electra introduced them his new friend, and they sat between Medea and Cassandra, who were toasting marshmallows. The girls offered sticks with the sweets to Eric. They were smiling, unlike their cousin, who looked at Eric with a frown and suspicion. He was grim most of the time. The golden haired girl next to him nudged him once in a while, but all Jack did was staring at Eric, forgetting about the stick over the fire. All of his marshmallows turned into a charred mass.
“Eric, how great it is that you’ve brought the guitar with you,” Medea said. “Before you came, Hector was playing the flute. Perhaps you’ll play something together?”
“Sure,” Eric said. “But only after I eat my marshmallow.”
“We still have a lot of them.” Cassandra waved her bag. “Four to five pounds.”
“I’m so happy I’m in the forest at night,” Medea said dreamily. “By the way, how much time do we have?”
“There’s still enough time. You’ll manage to gorge all that you’ve brought,” Jack muttered.
“What’s the matter with you?” Cassandra said. “Why are you spoiling everyone's mood?”
“I spoil?”
“Yes, you. You sit there as if bitten by a hedgehog.”
“Hedgehogs don’t bite.”
“Oh, they do!” Medea said.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Hector said. “Why quarrel? This is a wonderful night, and we all are having good time.”
Everyone became silent. For some time, Eric strummed his guitar, looking at Electra and her sisters, then glancing at Jack who was still grim and sullen. “Tell me about Hollow,” he said.
“Is there anything specific you want to know?” Hector asked.
“I don't even know what to start with. When my parents sent me here, they called it a village. Now I see that they had no idea what they were talking about.”
“I’m sure you have already realized that Hollow is not an ordinary place. Things happen here that would never happen in other places.”
Eric looked at Hector. His words produced a sea of new questions.
“This place lives by other rules. Many have tried to change them,” Hector said, “but the attempts were not successful, and so they put up with Hollow.”
“When you speak of ‘many,’ do you mean the people on the other side?”
“Yes,” Medea said, “he means the people on the other side.”
“I’ve noticed the townspeople don’t always get along.”
“Did you know that Dryas is also called Ptarmigan Grass?” Jack said.
“And what does it have to do with the townspeople?” Cassandra asked.
“Nothing. It was a desperate attempt to propose another topic for a conversation.”
Medea chuckled, and turned to Eric. “Once upon a time, the town wasn’t divided like this. The Sirtalion was flowing just like today, but there was no enmity between the two banks. Then things began to change. Strangers appeared and started a witch hunt.”
“When did this happen?”
“More than a decade ago.”
“You said people came. Who were they? Where did they come from?”
“They came from fire. They killed and pillaged. They murdered witches, and those who had nothing to do with witchcraft. They killed the keepers of knowledge, doctors, midwives, herbalists. The remains of our family fled to Walachia, the rest were killed. We lost our parents and relatives due to the war which started between those who defended the witches and their families, and those who switched sides and joined the hunt. Some time later, our aunt and uncl
e returned to Hollow and brought us back, but lots of… people chose to never come back.”
While Medea was speaking, Eric was listening in silence. In the fire, he could see everything she told: the burning town, the bodies hanging down the gallows, the crows cawing above them. He saw creatures slaughtering women, chasing them, breaking the doors of their houses and dragging them to the square where the bonfires were burning, their flames reaching up to the sky. He saw black figures tying people to the logs in the middle of the brushwood, and a man and a woman being swallowed by the flames. He could hear them scream, and smell the smoke filled with the nauseous odor of burning flesh. He saw men smashing the great stone bridge with cudgels, destroying houses, burning stables; the same dark figures locking men and women in the dungeon, the torture mechanisms under the walls, the black coffins where the maidens were locked and buried alive. The visions were passing before his eyes, followed by tears and cries for mercy. The flames remembered everything. They were sparkling with yellow and red, telling the story of violence and hate. Then the fire strengthened; Eric stretched his hand to open the door of the house that was caught in flames. He could hear screams coming out of the chinks of the windows. Then the red flame bit his palm and made him wince.
“…as a result, the town was divided into two camps, and so far the majority on the other side don’t want to have anything to do with us,” Medea finished her story.
Eric touched the palm of his right hand. It was covered with a fresh burn. In searches for explanation, he glanced at Electra, then at Cassandra, who were silently looking into the fire.
“Only a few trails of wizardry are left on the East Bank. For example, Mr. Pickering's Old Curiosity Shop. It was always there, on the East Bank. Travelers and collectors of everything strange still visit him.”
“Speaking of Pickering, tell me, could it be that you enter the shop in the afternoon and go out at night?”
The girls looked at him with wonder. “Sure, if you stayed there until night,” Electra said.
Eric chuckled. “I meant that I entered the shop in the afternoon, spent a couple of hours there, and when I came out, it was already night.”
“Ah,” Cassandra laughed, “had you angered Mr. Pickering?”
“I don't know.” Eric shrugged. “He might not have been happy to find me snooping through his things.”
“No one likes that,” Jack said grimly.
“Mr. Pickering could do that, but I don't think he was very angry with you. He probably was having fun at your expense,” Electra said.
“Yes, having fun and stealing a few hours of his life,” Medea laughed.
“What were you looking for at the Old Curiosity Shop? You know, lots of things in the shop have been made by our uncle,” Electra, said “and Jack.”
“Entered out of interest, found a job.”
“Really? You work at Mr. Pickering's?”
“I’m a janitor there.”
The girls cracked up.
“Indeed?” Electra giggled.
“Well yes, if someday you visit the shop, you’ll see me in a janitor's uniform, with a broom in my hand,” he jested.
A horse neighed somewhere close. A man wrapped in a black mantle dismounted the horse and treaded towards the fire. Eric stared at him, wondering if that was one of those silhouettes he had spotted in the mist. Coming closer, the man pulled back his hood and a smiling face looked around the fire.
“Did I imagine it, or was someone playing a guitar?”
The group around the fire squealed with joy.
“Who is he?” Eric asked in Electra's ear.
“The bard!”
“Who?”
“The bard,” Cassandra said, leaning toward him.
Eric stared at the girls.
“A skald,” Medea said.
“A wandering musician,” Electra explained.
The bard sat by the fire next to Eric. “Young man, was it you playing?” He took a musical instrument from his back: a beautiful harp-guitar, with fourteen strings, curves and patterns.
“How good it is to see so many happy faces,” the bard said, looking at the youngsters.
“Will you sing for us?” Cassandra asked. “We’ve been dreaming about it for so long.”
“Long?” the bard thought aloud. “Yes, so much time has passed. Sometimes I lose count, for you know, it is not difficult, if you don’t count. But right when I go back to the places I have been once, it seems those centuries have never passed.”
“Centuries?” Eric whispered. “Is he delusional?”
Electra put her finger to her lips. “Wait. He might sing for us.”
Eric looked at Cassandra and Medea for explanation, but they were gazing at the bard with undisguised admiration and seemed to not notice anyone else around them.
The bard strummed the strings, and stopped. His audience applauded happily.
“Shall we sing The Bard’s Song?”
“Yeees!” young people shouted.
Then the bard’s song began. Sitting around the campfire, the young people sung with him the song that sounded in the forest for centuries, the music that few people had the luck to hear, the mellifluous tune that caressed the forest’s trees and restored its life. The song about the time that was almighty, the life that was endless, and the bards—the timekeepers, who guided the gates of time, collected the stories, turned them into legends, and shared them with the new world.
After the last tunes, everyone burst into applause.
“The bard’s song is the finest thing in the world!” Medea exclaimed. “Will you sing again?”
The bard smiled.
“Oh, please,” asked the others.
“Please, sing again.”
“Don’t leave us so early.”
“We have always dreamed about meeting you.”
“Very well.” He pulled out a bag from the pocket of his cloak. “Let us turn this night into magic.” The bard strewed silver pollen into his palm and blew it into the fire. Sparkling silver rain blinded Eric’s eyes. When his sight returned to him, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He was standing in the middle of a chamber lighted by torches and candles, and full of people in seemingly strange clothes.
“Masquerade?” Eric mused out.
It was noisy and crowded. People in medieval garbs were dancing in the center of the chamber, tables in the corners were heavy with viands and drinks. Among the musicians near the wall Eric recognized the bard, who was in the forest with him only a second ago. His lively music was filling the great hall, setting up the guests for a dance.
Before Eric decided he had totally lost his mind, Electra, wearing a long emerald dress, with ribbons in her hair, ran up to him and took his hand.
“Eric! Let's go dance.”
“Wait a minute! Where are we? Who are these people? What’s happening?”
She laughed. “The world we live in is another skald's dream.”
While Eric was thinking about the next question, Electra dragged him into the middle of the chamber. As strange as it was, Eric knew how to dance the medieval dance. Mingling with twenty other dancing couples, he and Electra circled across the chamber, holding hands, jumping and clapping. Eric couldn’t take his eyes off her when she was spinning around him. He was somewhere in the Middle Ages, in the king's hall, with the most beautiful maiden, and if it was a dream, he didn’t want to ever wake up.
Music kept on playing, and the dancing didn’t stop. Eric and Electra were joined by Cassandra and Medea, who were holding hands of two young men dressed in a colorful camisole and a huque decorated with an emblem. Eric had long noticed that he too was in a similar attire, but he wasn’t surprised anymore. He took Electra by her waist, lifted her into the air and spun her around. They spun until he got dizzy and closed his eyes. He could still hear her laughter and feel her hair tickling his face. The music began drifting away, and soon everything was over.
19. Blue Castle
Eric opened his
eyes. For the first few seconds he couldn’t figure out where he was. He was still wearing his clothes, he even had his sneakers on. Rubbing his eyes and looking around, Eric recognized his room in the O'Brians’ house. He tried to remember the night before and how he had reached home. He remembered the forest, the bard; he remembered the king’s hall and his friends, but how the feast ended, and how he returned home, remained a mystery.
He wondered where Electra and her company were. He reached his hand out to the bedside table, turned over the sheet of paper and saw a new inscription:
“Today at five come for dinner. If you forgot the road, ask.”
Eric laughed. No matter how much he used the ink and paper, the magic amazed him every time.
“Haven’t forgotten,” he wrote under her line.
A quiet knock came from the window. Eric saw a sparrow jumping on the snow-covered ledge. He drew the curtains and gaped from surprise. Winter had fallen over Hollow. A thick layer of snow had covered the town; the fog and frost were hanging over the forest and the river. The branches of the trees had bent under the weight of the first snow, and the shrubs had turned into white hills. The heavy sky had fallen on the distant mountains. Fluffy snowflakes were swirling in the air and glittering icicles were hanging above Eric’s window. Snowmen were already standing near the houses, and children were running outside, carrying sleighs.
The winter brought a lot of trouble. With a shovel in his hands, Eric spent almost an hour scraping the snow off the porch and the yard. The work could have been done faster, if Henry hadn’t gotten underfoot all the time, trying to help him. He was more a hindrance than a help, but Eric loved the waggish boy and didn’t want to drive him away. Henry continually threw snowballs at him and asked for help to make a snowman. Eleanora came outside, and they began to battle with snowballs. Several times Riona called them inside to drink tea and warm up, but the snow fight didn’t end until Henry and Eleanora pushed Eric into the snow and declared themselves the winners.
Someone clapped by the fence. In a fur hat and a white coat, with a rosy blush on the cheeks, Dinah McCormack looked like a snow doll.
“Isn’t it lovely weather?”
“It is,” Eric panted from the ground.
“We’re going to make a big snowman in the square. Are you coming?”
When Eric refused the invitation, Dinah and Eleanora stared at him with surprise.
“I’m tired, and wet from head to feet, but Nora and Henry will go with you, right?” Eric looked at Eleanora. She took her brother's hand and left with Dinah. Eric could tell Dinah was displeased, but he had other plans for the day. He was supposed to be at Pickering’s and would visit Electra after work, if Pickering didn’t play the trick with time on him.
As always hiding his face under a cap, and trying to evade Uncle Albert's friends and neighbors, Eric went to the Old Curiosity Shop on the East Bank. Pickering wasn’t there, and Eric had to attend to the customers alone. It was almost five when he left the shop. He tried to cross the square quickly and quietly, but it wasn’t necessary, as Dinah and her company were no longer there. Instead, there was a huge, ten-foot tall snowman by the bronze fountain. Eric paced quickly across the stone bridge. On the way he met Mr. O'Leary, the gardener, who was making ice sculptures that adorned the streets and yards of both of the banks. When Eric shook hands with him, the gardener was working on a unicorn.
The blue castle stood out more on the white background. From the distance it looked like a blue stain on the white meadows, bordered by a row of snow-covered evergreens and misty mountains. Jack was shoveling snow in the yard when Eric came in through the open gate. Then Electra appeared and took him on a tour in the castle, while Cassandra and Medea were laying the table.
The castle’s library was impressing. According to Eric, even his town library didn’t have so many books. Some of the volumes were in crumpled covers, while others were intact, and many were decorated with symbols and patterns. There were books that looked like pieces of art, with bindings made of leather or silver, and letters written in gems or pearls. Some of the titles were in Latin, Gaelic, Armenian, and Romanian—with shiny embossed letters.
Electra took Eric to the fireplace hall. It was large, with a floor tiled in patterns of centaurs, and antique furniture made of red wood. Meticulous carvings of mermaids adorned the tall chandeliers and lamps with crystal lampshades. An enormous fireplace, which occupied almost the whole western wall, was flanked with figures of horned fauns and bats with pointy wings, and its fire was so big that the spacious hall was warm despite the freezing weather. The hall was full of paintings—most of them portraits. Eric stared at a grey-haired man with a short crooked beard and a pair of pince-nez over the bridge of his nose, smiling from the canvas. He was strange looking, not because of the funny beard and hairdo, but because he was wearing a nightcap with a star on its edge and fluffy slippers, although he was in a rich suit, sitting in a velvet armchair, and holding a quill pen in his hand.
“That’s Grandfather Grindewald, the wisest grandpa in the whole world,” Electra said. “He’s a famous wizard, a magician. The magic ink and quill pens are his inventions. He lives in a palace in Walachia, where we pay him visits sometimes.”
“A wizard? Well, yes, he reminds me of the wizards from children’s books. Now I see where the illustrators get their inspiration. And who’s this woman?” Eric looked at a beautiful woman with red hair, wearing a long blue dress and pearl earrings. She looked unhappy. Her grey eyes were glaring at something not visible in the painting. She was standing near an open window, and the scenery behind gave away her whereabouts—it was Hollow, with the mighty river and the great stone bridge.
“That is Grandmother Cordelia. She was a famous witch. She’s Grandfather Grindewald's wife. This is an old painting. It was painted when she still lived in Hollow.”
“You and Cassandra look a lot like your grandmother.”
“Frankly, she’s our great-grandmother. Our grandparents were killed during the witch hunt. Grindewald and Cordelia are our great-grandparents. But that word is too long, and we’ve chosen ‘Grandpa’ and ‘Grandma’ instead.”
“They must be old.”
“Indeed, they are. Older than you think.”
“And who’s this man?”
“That’s the crazy mechanic, the inventor of everything strange and needful. If not for him, we would never have our flying umbrellas and saddles for brooms. Can you see those thick spectacles? He had to wear them because he had read thousands of books, and invented things you have never heard of. Marcus de Stinta was considered crazy. He would lock himself in his study and wouldn’t come out for days. He wouldn’t even eat anything until he had finished his invention. That’s why he is so thin and pale-looking, and his clothing looks a size or two bigger than needed. He was Grandfather Grindewald's cousin on his mother's side. Sadly, he died at a very young age, without managing to bring to life all the sketches he had drawn.”
The next painting was of a dark-haired woman with skin white as marble, and a cunning smile. She was wearing a long green dress, had a green veil over her head, and a large fuzzy spider perched on her shoulder.
“That’s Morgaine. The fear of travelers who dared cross the forest. She’d weave spider webs and either trap the reckless wanderers or make their paths complicated with the labyrinths of web. She did a lot of mischief, caused much trouble.”
“Is she alive?”
“I don’t know. If she is, then she must be a hundred years old. She disappeared a long time ago, and no one knows what happened to her. She might have been killed during the witch hunt, or might be hiding somewhere in the depths of the forest. It is said that if you try, you can cheat the time there.”
Eric looked at Morgaine’s cunning face. Her archness was masterfully passed onto the canvas, and her sly smile hid more secrets than he would ever know. Morgaine looked into his eyes and winked. Eric stood dumbfounded.
“And this is Archibald, Grandpa Grin
dewald’s long-gone brother.” Electra stopped in front of another painting.
“Seems like a pleasant old man,” Eric said about the red-haired man with a cane, in tartan clothing, sitting on a rock under the sunshine, with a white lamb at his heels. The painting was abundant in light and green, which was in great contrast to the previous one.
“He was, indeed. Archibald could talk to animals and never left the house at night, as he was allergic to the moon.”
“Allergic to the moon? Does that happen?”
“Sadly it does. And sadly, Medea has inherited that disease. She too never goes out at night.”
“Medea? How sad. Isn’t there a cure?”
“No. There is only one night when she can go out without harm, and that’s Halloween. The rest of the time she stays at home.”
“But she was in the forest yesterday.”
“Because there was an eclipse yesterday.”
They continued to stroll across the hall. Eric passed before the paintings, getting to know the strange members of the no-less-strange family, which included a witch, an alchemist, a wizard, another witch, a scientist, an astrologer, twin warlocks, triplet witches, a conjurer. Some looked funny, some sad. Some gazed proudly, some were sinister. Those painted people seemed extraordinary, fairytale characters. Eric couldn’t believe they lived in his world, for in his world there was no place for sorcerers who invented flying umbrellas, wizards who created magical inks, and witches who brewed potions and rode brooms.
“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if you find it insulting.”
“What is it?” Electra asked.
“I always thought that witches were evil, and that they caused harm and cooperated with the dark forces. But you and your sisters are the sweetest girls I’ve ever met. How is that?”
“Witches are not always evil,” she answered with a smile. “That’s not true—a misinformation, started by people who do not or cannot accept anything extraordinary, anything that is out of their understanding. They call us foul and damned, for they don’t believe that someone who has more powers than them, doesn’t necessarily use those powers for evil.”
“What about Morgaine? She was evil.”
“Sadly she was. And not only her. But aren't there bad people among those who aren’t witches? Bad people are everywhere; we can't change it. We need darkness to appreciate the light. Still, none of my family members are malicious—neither my aunt nor my sisters.”
“My cousin Eleanora said you’re not sisters. Is that true?”
“It is,” Electra said, leading him to the stairs. “We’re cousins. But we grew up together, shared and still share everything, and our love for each other makes us even dearer than sisters.”
They ascended to the landing of the third floor with closed doors and mazing corridors. Draped curtains hung over the doors, hiding them up to the middle.
“How many rooms are in your house?”
“A lot.”
“What’s behind these doors?”
“Rooms.”
“Are they inhabited?”
“They are.”
“But there are only six people in your family, and I've seen more than ten rooms already. Do you have a lot of guests?”
“You see, this castle was inhabited before us, thus we are the guests.”
Eric looked at the doors with distrust. “Can we enter any of these rooms?”
“Not all of them. There are rooms where you can’t go.”
“And which ones can I enter?”
Electra led him to an oak door hidden under a thick blue drape with golden fringe. “I think no one is here now, you can open the door,” she said.
Eric entered the dark room. Fingers snapped and candles burned in candlesticks, lighting up the corner. An unfinished tapestry with a castle, a drawbridge, and horse riders, hung from a loom against the wall.
“Whose room is this?”
“The Lady of Shallot’s.”
“Whose?”
“The Lady of Shallot. She’s not here now, but she’ll come back. We can’t be here long. We shouldn’t disturb the inhabitants of the rooms.”
“Who is she?”
“Have you not heard of her?” Electra asked:
“But who hath seen her wave her hand?5
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shallot?”
Those lines were unfamiliar to Eric. He looked around, wondering how someone could live there. There were no windows and no bed inside the room. He stopped in front of an oval mirror with nothing reflected inside. Eric ran his hands before the mirror, but still didn’t see his reflection.
“Isn’t this a mirror?”
“It is.”
“But how can it be?”
“Let’s go downstairs,” Electra said. “The table is laid already.”
Just as he was about to go out of the room, for a split second, something glimpsed in the mirror. Eric could swear he saw a town, or rather a stone bridge and a castle in the background, and people passing across the bridge. He barely had time to draw Electra's attention to the mirror, when the images disappeared.
“And why is it not allowed to enter the other rooms?”
“There are dwellers who can’t be bothered, dwellers who, to their great regret, can’t leave the rooms. And there are also rooms where it can be dangerous for a person who doesn’t know what to expect.”
“Will you tell me what's behind the other doors?”
“I will, but not now.” She opened the door to the dining room. “Now I really want to eat.”
There was a variety of appetizing dishes on the table: roast turkey, vegetable soup, and carrot casserole; mashed potatoes with rosemary, cranberry sauce, and biscuits with cinnamon. Medea kept telling Eric how long and hard they had been cooking for him because they didn’t know his preferences.
“I’m sorry you had to do so much because of me,” he said. “I’m not really picky about food.”
“Medea is exaggerating. We didn’t work in the kitchen all day, and we were pleased to cook for you because you’re our guest,” said Cassandra.
“Thank you, everything is delicious.”
The only one not talking around the table was Jack. He was eating in silence, sometimes frowning at Eric. Only the infrequent sound of the cutlery in his hands betrayed his presence.
Taking advantage of the moment when Cassandra was talking to Eric, Medea put a piece of chicken on her plate. When she turned back to her food, Cassandra scowled and looked around the table.
“Who put this into my plate?”
Everyone looked at Medea.
“Take it back.” Cassandra picked the drumstick with the tips of her fingers, and threw it at Medea.
“Thank you.”
“Silly.”
“Cassandra doesn’t eat meat,” Electra explained to Eric.
“A vegetarian?”
“I’m afraid she has other principles.” Medea pursed her lips. “You see, she doesn’t eat those whom she talks to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Electra said. “We all are picky. I don’t eat red meat, Cassandra doesn’t eat meat at all—”
“And I eat everything,” Medea declared.
Eric laughed. “Cassandra, do you really talk to animals?”
She blushed. “Not with all of them… it depends.”
“Oh, don't be so modest, my dear. One day she will be a master of auspice,” Medea said, then added thoughtfully, “We ought to pay more attention to her words.”
After dinner the girls took Eric to the fireplace hall for a dessert. The coffee table was breaking under the amount of chocolate cupcakes, pineapple doughnuts, a strawberry cake with whipped cream, a cherry pavlova, lemon ice-cream, and hazelnut cookies. Eric couldn’t believe they had prepared that all just for him.
“What beautiful cats you have,” he said about the ca
ts in their laps.
“This is Trouble.” Electra took the snow-white cat’s snout to her lips. “My little joy,” she muttered, kissing the cat's nose.
“Is it an optical illusion or do her eyes have different colors?”
“Her one eye is blue and the other is green.”
“And here is Sorrow.” Medea fondled the Russian Blue cat with emerald eyes.
“Death,” said Cassandra. She had a fluffy Persian cat lying on her knees.
“Strange names for these lovely cats.”
“Cats are designed to ward off bad things, and in this case, they should drive away trouble, sorrow, and death.”
Eric excused himself to use the bathroom and was led to the second floor. As soon as Electra left, he looked at the spiral stairs and thought about the doors that shouldn’t be opened. He knew it was wrong to look into the rooms behind the closed doors, but he was spellbound, and the secrets behind the doors beckoned him to the third floor. He pulled the handle of the first door and peeped inside.
A forest alley stretched before the eyes.
Eric blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the alley didn’t disappear. The smell of pine needles tickled his nose, and the sun's warm rays spread through the foliage. Flocks of scarlet leaves were flying leisurely across the alley, swaying from side to side and landing on the yellow grass. This door wasn’t a way out of the house. First, it was on the third floor; second, it was winter outside; and third, it was already dark, while it was light behind the door, as if the sun had recently risen.
How much he wanted to take a step forward and see whether it was real or a trick, an optical illusion. He recalled Electra’s words about dangers behind the doors. He had to be reasonable and stay out. But he still stepped over the threshold, holding the door with one hand so it wouldn’t shut behind him.
Someone appeared at the end of the alley. It was a horseman, and he must have noticed Eric, as he set his horse to a trot and darted forward. With the knock of the hooves, the yellow leaves whirled over the road, and a shower of leaves gushed down the trees. It would have been very beautiful, if not for the horseman racing at Eric. He was already close. Realizing the rider would soon overtake him, Eric jumped out and slammed the door behind him.
He took a deep breath and let out a nervous titter. What a strange place, he thought, what a house. Then he looked at the other door. He was even more curious to know what was behind it. Without thinking it through, Eric pulled on the handle. It was dark inside. The only light came from a barred window. Eric saw a dress reaching to the floor, and long hair. There was a woman in the room, looking out the window. She turned around, and the door slammed shut in front of his nose.
“What are you doing? You shouldn’t bother the people behind the doors.”
Eric looked at Electra, then back at the door. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”
“This is not an ordinary house. These doors, they are portals; they lead to other places and other times. We have no right to intervene. And even if we wished, we shouldn’t. No one should change the course of history.”
“You're not mad at me for opening the doors, are you?”
“I’m not,” she said with a smile.
“Sometimes I think I’m going crazy, or that I’m still sleeping at the bus stop, and all this is just a dream. If you only knew how much I dread it.”
“I’m not a dream,” she said, “and this is not a dream, either.”
Eric touched her hair, pushed a red lock behind her ear. “You’re better than any dream.”
She gave him a lovable smile and took his hand. “Let's go upstairs. There are interesting things you might like.”
Electra took him to a chamber on the fourth floor. This room was larger than the one they had entered before dinner, teemed with bottles, flasks, vials, books and albums, microscopes and telescopes. Eric sauntered across the room, looking at the phials with colored liquids, and at the enormous umbrellas leaning against the wall.
“Such big umbrellas,” he said.
“To carry big weights.”
“Don’t tell me…”
She nodded with a giggle.
“Show me! Please, you have to.”
Electra giggled louder. “One day I will, I promise.”