The Saint and the Sorcerer

by J. C. Hanna

  Branna turned around, walked forward, and vanished into the wall as quickly and as easily as a candle being blown out.

  The queen sat down. She looked at her blood-stained hand. Regret over the bargain, and the shame of her weakness had already started to set in.

  Chapter Nineteen: Twenty-eight Days Until Amy’s Death

  Amy woke-up early. She had slept soundly. The encounter with Branna no longer seemed real. Her first thoughts on waking were entirely pleasant; she had two days off work ahead of her, and it was only one day until the big flash event in Central Park.

  With nothing formally planned she intended to pad around the apartment for few hours before heading into the city for a little retail therapy. Her blissful scheming ceased when she heard a gentle thud—the sound came from the living room. It was a familiar sound. She sighed. Lord Norfolk was a demanding feline—he was more like an attention seeking toddler, or dead-beat boyfriend than a cat. She knew that he would act up with increasing determination until she got out of bed and saw to his needs. The greatest of those needs being food. She sighed despondently.

  “Coming,” she called. “And if you have brought me any little gifts from the dumpsters, you’ll never set a paw inside this apartment again.”

  Amy got out of bed and she expertly fixed her hair into a loose ponytail as she crossed the bedroom. She walked the short distance to the living area of the apartment with a spring in her step. Her sunny disposition was doused instantly by annoyance when she entered the messy space to find that Lord Norfolk was missing. She searched the kitchen. Nothing. The cat had vanished. He had an annoying habit of turning up and disappearing at will. No doubt he would eventually show up, hungry and needy, just as she was about to leave. Annoyance turned to alarm as she re-entered the living area to find Branna sitting in the chair in front of the television. Lord Norfolk was sitting on her lap. The intruder was gently stroking the cat.

  “Again!” snapped Amy. “Whatever crap you are selling, lady, I am not interested. You can’t just go around breaking into my apartment. This is insane! Get out, or I will call the cops.”

  Amy walked with fearless determination towards Branna. Any concern that she had for her safety immediately vanished; she had to confront the girl head-on.

  “I’m talking to you!” Amy added.

  She stood in front of Branna and crossed her arms primly. Branna appeared entirely disinterested in the display of daring.

  “What’s your problem?” Amy continued, in a loud and more aggressive tone.

  Branna leaned forwards and she carefully set the cat onto the floor. She looked up at Amy.

  “Problem?” Branna said. “Right now, my main problem is you. If you would like a more comprehensive list of what’s troubling me, it could take a while. You are going to listen to what I have to say, one way or the other. Why not make the process easier on both of us? Sit down, and keep your mouth firmly closed. This will not take long.”

  Amy recoiled slightly. To her amazement, she found herself compliantly moving towards a wooden chair next to Branna, onto which she dutifully sat.

  “Talk,” Amy demanded, as she tried to take back some control. “And make it quick. I am all out of patience with this BS.”

  “Tomorrow night your world will become very strange,” Branna began.

  “Strange? Really?” Amy interrupted, sarcastically. “Stranger than Gandalf’s grandpa coming out of a pond and stealing my boots? Stranger than you and your, now you see me, now you don’t, act?”

  Branna sighed gently.

  “Yes, much stranger,” she added.

  Much of Amy’s coarse sarcasm sailed unregistered past Branna. Amy shook her head.

  “Then, by all means, continue,” Amy invited.

  “I am a witch,” Branna began.

  “Of course you are. A tweaking-out Wiccan. Now it all makes sense. Did you leave your broom and pointed hat at home?”

  Amy gestured wildly with her hands as she spoke.

  “You know, this will go a lot faster if you shut-up and let me say what I have come here to say.”

  As Amy sat back into the chair she refolded her arms, defensively. She listened in silent protest as she bit firmly on her lower lip.

  “Thank you. I am a witch. Or to be more correct, I am a child of the old faith. The term witch is not one that I would use to describe what I am; but to save time, it will do. I am over one thousand years old. I come here from Ireland. And, I am here for you.”

  “For me?” Amy asked, with fake alarm. “Like some weird ritual? Or sacrifice?”

  “No, nothing like that. I have come here to seek your help.”

  Branna paused for a moment. Her face twisted with deep thought.

  “Then again… Hmm… Sacrifice? Maybe…” Branna said. “But I will get to that shortly.”

  Amy’s face, never flush with colour under normal circumstances, paled even more.

  “The man that you met in the park is called Rufus. He is Ireland’s greatest saint. He was drawn to this city, and to you. He has crossed a thousand years of time to meet with you and to ask you to join us in our war.”

  Branna paused. Amy waited for more, and when it became clear that no more was on the way, she spoke up.

  “One; you do realise that all of this sounds certifiable? Two; why would he need me for his war? Three; I have never heard of a Saint Rufus.”

  Branna reached down by the side of her chair and she picked up a small doll. She threw the doll to Amy. As she caught the doll, Amy instantly recognised it.

  “My Saint Paddy doll? And?”

  Branna smiled widely. It took Amy a few moments to connect the dots.

  “No,” Amy said. “This Rufus dude is Saint Patrick? But, Rufus?”

  “He can explain that to you,” Branna said.

  Amy carefully viewed the comical doll—it was more cartoon leprechaun than a proper effigy of a person.

  She had witnessed a lot of strange and unusual events over the past few weeks, and she had no explanation for any of them; or none that satisfied her. But this was too much; too strange. She stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” Amy began. “This is utter madness. If you are a witch, then do something… Witchy. Prove to me that you are who you say you are.”

  Branna smiled. She stood up.

  “Amy, I could spend the next month doing all kinds of magical things, and you would find a rational explanation for all of them. It is something that you are going to have to come to on your own.”

  Branna stood up and she walked across the apartment towards the exit. Amy followed her.

  “And how, or why, would I ever come to any of this on my own?” Amy asked.

  Branna smiled, sympathetically.

  “This is a war, and you have a crucial part to play in it. The other side in that war now knows that you exist and that you are important to us, and they will try to kill you. I will do all that I can to protect you, but there will come a moment when you must make a choice. You can join us, or you can die.”

  Branna opened the door and she exited the apartment. Amy followed her. As Amy stepped into the hallway, Branna was gone.

  “Son of a witch! I have to hand it to you; that is one hell of a trick,” Amy said, in a quiet voice.

  She went back inside the apartment. As the door closed behind her, Amy gasped. The clothes, and empty packaging, and all the unclassified, and unclassifiable components of the mess on the floor had gone. She moved through the living space at speed to inspect the rest of her home. From kitchen to bedroom to bathroom; everything was spotless. More than that, everything was perfect—exactly how she would have arranged the apartment if she had ever found the motivation. Utterly immaculate, and disturbing.

  Chapter Twenty: The Rescue

  England, 418 A.D.

  Several hours passed before the young Patrick regained consciousness. He awoke to find that he was still in the forest. He was not bound or gagged, and aside from a thin layer of cold, morning dew cove
ring his body, he was in a state of relative comfort—his vision was slightly clouded and his head hurt a little.

  It may have been but a dizzying artefact from the blow to the head, but he was almost certain that by the edge of the clearing he could see several flashes of silvery-white light—less dazzling than the night-time display, but striking nonetheless. What was clear, or perhaps the symptom of an even more serious head injury than he had reckoned on, there was that a man standing just beyond the clearing. The man stood beneath the drooping branches of a tired old willow tree. Patrick instinctively recoiled, and then he crouched down. As he tried to make himself as small as he possibly could, he reasoned, with alarm, that the man was one of the gang that had attacked him.

  Patrick held his breath and he began to move away from the figure, towards the tree line behind him. He stopped suddenly. The two men from the night before were lying awkwardly, side by side in the undergrowth, on a barely perceptible animal trail. Patrick glared at the men for several tense moments. At first, he thought that they were sleeping. They made no sound, and they didn’t stir once while he watched them patiently for several minutes. There was a bruise on the left temple of the bandit closest to Patrick.

  He approached the men, very slowly. The other man had several bruises on his face. They were not sleeping; nor were they dead. Patrick observed their chests rise and fall—slowly, but with definite regularity. They were in a place somewhere between sleep and death, and they were sent to that place by an act of great violence.

  Patrick looked back at the figure by the edge of the clearing. The man was looking down at his feet. Above the quiet early morning breeze as it unsettled the trees, and the loud birdsong, a gentle voice eased its way from the man’s lips to Patrick’s ears. The man was talking to someone or something, but Patrick could not hear what was being said—not at first.

  Patrick looked back from his hiding place in the dense undergrowth, into the woods behind him. His view of the forest was severely restricted, but he could pick out what looked like a viable escape route. He turned to the man in white one last time. Patrick got to his feet and he prepared to run. In that most important moment, the man turned around sharply to face Patrick.

  “Do not be afraid, Patrick,” called the stranger, in a kind and gentle voice. “I have been sent here to protect you.”

  The boy was instantly rooted to the spot.

  “Sent?” quizzed Patrick. “Sent by who? My Grandfather?”

  “No, my son, I have been sent by your Heavenly Father. He has great plans for you. He wants you to set out on an important mission in His name.”

  The man began to walk slowly towards Patrick. As he entered the clearing Patrick could see that the stranger was not alone. There were several fairies with him. Two walked on the ground through grass that was almost as tall as they were, and two flew at knee height next to the man. Behind the man, there was a red fox with a white-tipped tail, and a well-fed badger trundled along meekly behind the fox. The fox cautiously glanced in all directions as it moved. The badger showed no such caution—it was large enough and fierce enough to own the space completely.

  “What does my Heavenly Father want with me? I am just a boy? The church is full of good men. Holy men. And they are men.”

  “He has a great mission for you,” explained the man. “He wants you to be his warrior here on Earth. To lead his followers in the final battle against all that is evil. I am here to prepare you for that mission.”

  “I don’t know how to fight,” protested Patrick.

  “You will learn,” said the man. “I will teach you.”

  Patrick’s eager imagination instantly flew into action. He saw himself garbed in full battle dress, wielding a long sword, and battling the hideous monsters of the Romans and the Greeks.

  “I will return to you one day when you are facing your darkest hour,” said the man.

  The man continued to walk towards Patrick until he was standing directly in front of the youth.

  “Until I return, I need you to follow one simple command,” said the man. “I need you to live well.”

  Patrick did not know what the man meant by “live well” but it sounded like it was something good, or at the very least, harmless. He immediately agreed to the stranger’s request.

  “I will, my Lord.”

  The man reached out and touched Patrick’s forehead. The bruises on Patrick’s skin, and the pain in his head vanished in an instant.

  “You must return to your grandfather,” said the man. “He will soon rise from his slumber, and these woods are no place for the old. The fox will lead you back to your camp.”

  “Yes,” mumbled Patrick. “I will, Lord. But tell me, on what name shall I call, when next we meet?”

  “Victoricus,” replied the man. “Tarish has agreed to watch over you until you need to call on me.”

  The angry fairy flew into the space in front of Patrick’s face. Patrick recoiled. The creature did not look as if it had agreed to anything. As Patrick’s focus on the fairy blurred the forest background, there was an intense flash of golden light. When Patrick looked back in the direction of the light, Victoricus had gone.

  The badger calmly shook its entire body, and then it casually lumbered away from Patrick. The fox walked past Patrick at a leisurely pace. The creature disappeared into the undergrowth.

  “Well, stupid child? What are you waiting for?” snapped Tarish. “The fox will lead you to your camp, but it will not wait for you. Move your lazy bones!”

  Patrick immediately followed the fairy’s command. The fox walked with purpose as it picked its way through the forest, but it did so at an easy pace. The small band eventually made it to the camp. The old man was only just rising from a peaceful rest when Patrick returned.

  Chapter Twenty-one: Witchcraft

  Tower of London, 15th January 1559

  The Royal Suite at The Tower buzzed with nervous excitement on the morning of the coronation. Pride of place, on an open willow lattice, in the centre of the largest room, a white satin dress was fussed over by three anxious seamstresses. The garment was worn by Queen Mary at her coronation.

  In the days leading up to the event, Elizabeth had spent a lot of time amongst the throng in London that had come from all over the country to wish her well. She felt slightly dishonest as she sympathised with their deprivation—beyond the hand-me-down coronation robes, her big day was set to be a lavish affair, and well beyond the means of her treasury. The six hundred yards of blue cloth that was laid between Westminster Abbey and Westminster Hall cost more than most of her poorer subjects combined would earn in their lifetimes. Cloths of gold and silver; velvets of black, and silks of crimson and blue, had been purchased in vast quantities to provide new outfits for every member of her retinue.

  As John Dee came in on the scene he looked lost and uneasy. The mystic preferred to speak in private to his Queen; the manic efforts of the attendants in the apartment, and the loud drone that they were generating was not at all to his liking. He approached the queen and bowed.

  “Majesty,” Dee said, in his most humble tone.

  “John,” beamed the queen. “It is finally happening. And I owe you so very much for the part you have played in bringing me this far.”

  Her countenance and tone inclined towards the sober and the sombre as she continued.

  “I must speak with you alone; for the briefest of moments,” she whispered.

  The queen brushed aside the seamstresses as she led Dee through to an empty room at the side of the main chamber. She continued to speak in a low voice.

  “Great care has been taken to safeguard my person against attack of human inception. Have you done all that can be done to ensure that the other realm keeps its distance? The demons are unlikely to manifest in the daytime; but what about the other dark forces? There are those that say the fairy folk do not fear the sunlight. And that elves and goblins can also act with free malice, regardless of the hour.”

  “M
ajesty?” quizzed Dee. “Why the sudden concern with the comings and goings of such lowly creatures?”

  “You know? Witchcraft, and other such mischief? They can pose as much of a threat as the demonic. If I wanted to see a monarch dead, I would enlist the services a fairy. It could slip into the household kitchen and set about the royal food with poison. All unseen. I feel that we have focused too much on demons, and not enough on the lesser creatures. Even in human conflicts, how many battles have been resolved king to king? That is not the way of it. One king is slain by some common soldier, or other. That is how things are done; in this realm, and in the other realm. But it is witchcraft that concerns me above all other threats.”

  “I have cast several spells of protection, but none specific to witchcraft. Nor to elves or fairies. I will harden that protection to include all things that might mean you harm. Do you have cause to fear some specific danger? If so, I can be more fixed in my efforts?”

  “None beyond the fact that witchcraft is the most common form of maliciousness. There are many throughout the kingdom with knowledge and understanding of that dark craft.”

  The queen talked at quite a pace; her voice heavily laced with sincerity and panic. It was quite out of character and Dee felt some measure of concern for her sanity. Sickening unease began to stir deep inside him.

  “Bess,” Dee began, in a comforting voice. “These matters have never troubled you before. Has something happened? Tell me what it is that truly distresses you and I will make it right.”

  The queen paused. She was uncertain about revealing too much. She finally relented.

  “I was visited by a phantom last evening. A young girl. At least, I believe her to have been a phantom.”

  “Why are you unsure?”