Something Magic This Way Comes

by Sarah A. Hoyt

  James took it. “Could it be a shield boss?”

  “Dunno,” said Mick, taking up his detector again, pub outing forgotten. “Let’s see what else we can find.”

  Over the next hour, they found more strange metallic objects, including chain links and round flat plates of metal.

  Rhian’s detector chirruped again. James dug enthusiastically.

  “Look at this,” he said.

  It consisted of two bars, connected by a chain link that was rusted into a solid mass. At the other end of each bar was a large metal loop decorated by a cross.

  “Do you know what it is?” Rhian asked.

  “I think it’s an ancient horse bit. The linked bars went in the animal’s mouth. The reins were attached to the loops,” James said.

  “Over here,” Mick called a halt. “Everyone bring their finds to the hut.”

  Rhian and James went over to show their bridle bit.

  One of the girls had a small cast-metal animal, a wolf.

  “That is a Celtic helmet crest,” said Mick, confidently.

  “Oh, come on,” said James. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I found this,” said Mick. He put an object in front of them. It was pointed, leaf-shaped, and socketed at the back.

  “A spearhead,” said James.

  “Look at the markings,” said Mick. Vinelike metal decorations ran down the blade. They were clearly Celtic.

  “I wonder what this place was,” said James. “There is no sign of a settlement.”

  “Could it have been a battleground?” asked Mick.

  “Imagine Queen Boudicca’s Celtic war chariots sweeping down the Thames valley.”

  “There’s no recorded battle in this area,” said James. “It was London that she burned.”

  “But there could have been an unrecorded skirmish,” said Mick, eyes shining with excitement.

  “I guess,” said James. He grinned at Rhian. She knew that he was not convinced, but he would not spoil Mick’s romantic dreams.

  An elderly Ford Escort pulled onto the wasteland, the engine expiring in a cloud of blue smoke. The young people crowded around Galbraith.

  “Have a look at this lot, Doc.,” said Mick, excitedly.

  “Ah, yes, most interesting,” said Galbraith. “Perhaps I should take these away for assessment. I still have a few contacts at the university.”

  Rhian barely knew Galbraith, as she had only joined the society recently after meeting James, but she got the impression that he did not seem as pleased as she would have expected. From the thoughtful expression on James’ face, he felt the same.

  Rhian held James hand as they left the site. She saw a gleam as she passed a dig hole. Without thinking, she bent down and picked up a small tarnished piece of metal. A spade had caught it on one side, chipping off the dirt and tarnish to reveal the shine of silver underneath. She surreptitiously slipped the artifact into her pocket. James looked at her, quizzically.

  Later that night, she shared a pizza with James in his flat.

  “So what did you filch from the site today?” asked James.

  She blushed and handed it to him.

  “Why didn’t you want Galbraith to look at it, love?” James asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just couldn’t give it up.”

  James examined it. “I think that it’s silver.”

  He rummaged around in a drawer and pulled something out. “Silver cloth!” he said to Rhian. He cleared a space on his table and polished furiously. Bright metal slowly emerged from black tarnish. Rhian watched with fascination. James used a needle to chip gently away at encrusted material.

  “It’s a brooch,” said James. ‘The pin is missing, but you can see where it fastened.” He polished furiously.

  “There is a face in the middle,” Rhian said. “No, it’s an animal of some sort, like a dog.”

  “Or a wolf,” said James. “Remember the helmet crest.”

  He kept polishing and picking out detail with the needle. “There are letters around the rim. Write this down, Rhian. We have an M, something unreadable, an A—no, it’s an R, a G, unreadable, an N, and something I can’t make out. What have we got?” asked James.

  “M RG N ,” Rhian spelled out.

  James switched on his computer.

  “What are you doing?” asked Rhian.

  “I’ll try and search for the name on the internet using partial matching.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Rhian, amused. “The word is Morgana; it’s Welsh.”

  “What is Morgana?” asked James.

  “Not what, but who,” said Rhian. “Morgana was the name of the Celtic goddess of war. You’ll know her better under her English name. She has a place in the Arthurian legends as Morgan le Fey, sorceress, Merlin’s wife and Arthur’s sworn enemy. In the Welsh tradition, Morgana was also the goddess of death, fate—hence, Morgan le Fey, the moon and lakes and rivers. Her symbol was the raven.”

  “So why is there a wolf on the brooch?” asked James, puzzled. He turned back to the computer.

  She waited, patiently as he searched through the internet.

  “Morgana was also the goddess of shapeshifters,” said James. “That explains it.”

  “Shapeshifters?” asked Rhian.

  “Yes,” said James, standing up. He made a claw gesture at her and growled. “Shapeshifters, you know, weres.”

  Rhian giggled. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  “Werewolves, Rhian. Haven’t you ever met a wolf?”

  James asked. He howled theatrically and leaped on her. She went over backward with a shriek.

  Rhian was on her back. James lay on top of her, holding her down. They both froze. She was tiny beneath him. She should have felt helpless, but instead she felt protected and loved.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “I had better walk you back to your bedsit.”

  That was her big, beautiful, loving James. He looked out for her. He never pressured or took advantage of her, so she would have to encourage him a little. “I have some things in my bag. I could stay here tonight,” she said.

  “It’s a small flat,” he said. “I only have one bed.”

  “I know,” said Rhian, raising her lips to his.

  * * *

  Rhian had taken to sleeping at James’ flat. He had suggested that she move in permanently to save money. She probably would give up her bedsit in the end. It seemed silly to pay rent on a place she hardly used. James had given her a key, so she let herself in.

  “Close your eyes,” James said. He fiddled with something around her neck. “Okay, open them.”

  The newly polished brooch hung around her neck on a heavy silver chain. “It’s lovely, James,” she kissed him.

  “This is the first time anyone has bought me jewelry.”

  “I only provided the chain,” he smiled. “But I’m glad you like it.”

  Rhian kept the brooch on. She even wore it to bed.

  That night she dreamt, vividly. She stood by a river that meandered across marshland. Mist rising off the water-soaked ground curled in the air making it difficult to see far, but she could pick out the dark shapes of trees on the edge of the boggy area. There was a glow on the horizon, and the air smelled of bonfires.

  She heard splashing and male voices. Half a dozen figures emerged from the mist, threading single file across the more solid ground. Every so often, one slipped into a bog. They wore yellow ochre tunics covered with chainmail shirts and had large steel helmets that flanged out to protect their necks. The metal was tarnished and rusty unlike the polished armor in museums.

  Some of them had spears and long red shields.

  They walked past without reacting to her. She noticed that her feet did not sink into the marsh and that she was warm despite being naked in the clammy mist. I’m a spirit, a ghost, she thought.

  Horse hooves pounded in the mist. The soldiers stopped and formed a circle. One of them barked orders in a strange languag
e. It sounded like Spanish or Italian, but she didn’t speak either. There was the blast of a horn, and a chariot sped out of the mist pulled by two small light brown ponies. The kneeling driver wore only striped trousers, and his hair was stiffened into a punk-style Mohican. A moustached warrior stood behind him in trousers and cloak. He held a spear with a long leaflike decorated blade and an oblong shield decorated with whirls.

  The chariot rode around the soldiers and stopped, the warrior dismounting. More chariots thundered past her until the mail-coated soldiers were encircled by silent, waiting warriors. A wolf howled in the distance.

  A chariot moved slowly from the mist. A wolf’s head standard was atop a pole fixed to the back of the vehicle. The chariot carried not a warrior, but a woman in a long green cloak fastened by a silver brooch—her silver brooch. The woman stepped down and raised both arms. When she spoke, Rhian understood her. It was Welsh, strangely accented Welsh.

  The woman said “Kill the Romans,” and the slaughter began.

  “Rhian, Rhian, wake up. It’s okay,” James said.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You were having a nightmare.” He held her tight.

  They made love, but all the time she lay beneath him, she felt the cold brooch between her breasts.

  * * *

  Rhian let herself into the hall. As usual, she was late, and James was already there. She squeezed onto a seat next to him. His lips were compressed in anger.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, worried that he was mad at her.

  “Never mind that, read this,” he said, handing her the new issue of the society’s journal.

  The newsletter was open at the editorial page. As usual, Galbraith had written it. She flipped through the main points. “Negative investigation,” “Some items found by metal detectors—turned out to be of no interest,” “Final report to Rayman’s indicates that development can go ahead immediately.”

  “Gailbraith has stitched us up,” said James.

  “Order, order,” Galbraith said from the front, blinking at them through thick glasses.

  Mick stood up. “Who decided that our archaeological finds were of no value?”

  “I showed them to other scholars, and they confirmed my view,” said Galbraith.

  “Where are the artifacts we found, Doctor Gailbraith? I would like a second opinion,” said James.

  “I am afraid that they are lost. Someone broke into my car and stole them,” said Galbraith.

  “So our finds have disappeared, and Rayman’s gets the go ahead to concrete over the site,” said James.

  “I know that you are all desperately disappointed that we found nothing of value, but the good news is that society is solvent from the surplus. Because the study was curtailed, we spent only a fraction of the ten thousand pound budget.”

  “Is that why you did it, Doctor Galbraith? For the money?” said Mick.

  “That is a despicable implication, young man. I should be very careful if I were you. Mr Rayman is a powerful, unforgiving man,” said Galbraith.

  “I always thought that you were a bit of an old twit, Galbraith, but I respected your scholarship. I won’t make that mistake again. I resign from this society,” said Mick. He walked out.

  “I resign too,” said James and followed Mick. Rhian went with James, and she was not the only one. Galbraith was left with a few elderly cronies.

  Mick was waiting for them on the pavement. He lit up a fag. “I keep meaning to give these things up, but now never seems to be a good time.”

  “We can’t let them get away with it,” said James.

  “This is outright corruption.”

  “Yeah, but where’s your proof?” said Mick. “Who will take our word against eminent citizens like Rayman and Galbraith? It might have been different if we had kept some of the artifacts.”

  Rhian felt the brooch against her skin. She wondered whether to mention it to Mick, but James silenced her with a look.

  “So there’s nothing we can do?” asked James.

  “I didn’t say that,” said Mick. “There’s nothing we can do legally, but a few words around the college, and I reckon that I could get a pretty good student demo going on Monday when Rayman tries to move onto the site. If nothing else, we can embarrass the bastards.”

  “Rhian and I have jobs to hold down,” said James.

  “We can’t just walk out.”

  “You could watch the site at night for us,” said Mick. “Students have short attention spans, but I can probably keep the sit-in going for longer if we have night cover.”

  “Okay, Monday night then,” said James.

  “Why did you stop me telling Mick about the brooch?” asked Rhian, as she and Mick walked back to his flat.

  “It has no provenance, Rhian. We could have got it from anywhere.”

  * * *

  On Monday night, she and James turned up at Rodomon Street at nine. The road was lined with parked earthmoving equipment. A handful of protesters slouched by a banner.

  “How did it go, Mick?” asked James.

  “Ace, mate, absolutely ace. We sat in front of the machines, preventing them coming on site, waved placards, and generally made a complete nuisance of ourselves. The local press turned out and even the Standard. Someone had tipped them off.” Mick blew on his fingers with mock modesty. “Rayman himself turned up in the end to shake his fist at us. It was glorious. All you two have to do is watch the place until morning. We’ll be back then.”

  “Sure,” said James. “They seem to have given up and gone home for the night.”

  “You two lovebirds have a quiet night,” said Mick, with a stage leer.

  Rhian found it impossible not to laugh. She and James waved them off, and then they were alone.

  They wandered around the wasteland for a while. The moon came up, casting strange shadows across the site. Its reflection rippled in the water. Rhian shivered; the air was cold this close to the canal, despite the season. James noticed and took her back to the hut.

  James hauled an airbed from his rucksack, and Rhian pulled a sleeping bag out of hers.

  “I hate blowing these things up,” said James. “I always get light-headed. Fortunately, I have a cure for that.”

  He produced a bottle and two plastic cups.

  “I think you will find it a cheeky little wine, with the merest hint of cinnamon, apple and old ashtray. This was the finest beverage that the supermarket boasted for less than three-pound fifty.”

  I’m sure it’ll be lovely,” said Rhian.

  They shared it watching the city through the open door, enjoying the wine and each other. Rhian was quite drowsy when they went to bed, but sleep eluded her. James dropped off immediately. The city seemed so close; sound carried easily through the flimsy wood of the hut. She catnapped until something woke her up. She lay listening, wondering if she had dreamed the sound, but it came again, the chink of a bottle kicked along the ground. There were also voices.

  She shook James.

  “What is it?” he asked, sleepily “There’s someone out there,” she said.

  “Stay here while I go and look,” he said.

  She followed him, of course.

  Five boys stood outside. One of them had a can in his hand, and she smelled petrol.

  “So a couple of snotty students are still here. Rayman will be pleased. He fancied making an example of someone,” said the lout at the front. “We will have some fun after all.”

  “A few more minutes and they would have been fricasseed student,” said the one with the can. The others laughed.

  Rhian moved, changing her silhouette against the moonlight, attracting attention.

  “One of them’s a girl,” a voice said.

  “So she is. We will definitely have fun then,” the lout said.

  “Run, Rhian,” said James, giving her a shove. He charged straight at the gang. James hit the lout in the face. James was a big man and the lout went down with a thud.

&n
bsp; Rhian couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She was so scared for James.

  James was trading blows with three of them now.

  Two of the gang grabbed him. The gang leader was back on his feet. He had an iron bar in his hand.

  Rhian watched it in slow motion. The bar swung high before slicing into James’ skull. There was a crunch like a plastic toy crushed by a hammer, and James fell, blood spraying from his head.

  Rhian threw herself at the lout, screaming. Her nails raked his face.

  “Bloody bitch,” he said and hit her in the mouth with his fist, knocking her to the ground.

  “He’s dead,” said a ganger, examining James’s body. “His skull’s all squishy.”

  “Then she has to go as well,” said the leader. “We don’t want no witnesses.”

  Rhian’s blouse was torn. Blood from her cut lip dripped down her front onto the Celtic brooch. It gleamed in the moonlight and soaked up the blood, like a sponge. The silver brooch pulsed red light. It burned against her skin.

  Cramp seized her muscles. The pain made her gasp.

  She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even breathe. Her very bones ached. Her teeth and mouth were pulled outwards. The moonlight shuddered, and what little color that was left in it bleached away. The world was monochrome, but the world smelled; it was alive with thousands of shades of scent. She heard everything, from the breathing of the gang members to the cars on the distant M4. She howled with pleasure at the beauty of the city.

  She rolled over onto her feet and stood up. She smelled fear; the gang reeked of terror. She chuckled deep in her throat, but it came out as a growl. Her mate lay still. She loped over to him, and she licked his face. James’ head lolled. Blood oozed out of his broken skull. The gang backed away from her. One of them held metal in his hand. She could smell her mate’s blood on it.

  The wolf did not intellectualize; the wolf acted. She gathered her legs under her and leaped. The prey backed away, but her front paws struck his shoulders.

  He prodded ineffectually at her. The iron bar bounced unnoticed off the packed muscle in her shoulders. She smashed him to the ground with her body weight. Her jaws descended on his face and she bit hard, tasting the rich flavor of hot blood. The lout screamed, the sound fading into a gurgle.