We were just a few yards from an arched, rock bridge over the stream that bisects The Valley. A short, disheveled looking old man with a straggly chin beard blocked our way.
Myrtle regarded him with threadbare tolerance. “Bill Ruff,” she said, “you know exactly who I am. Now step aside.”
“Not until you’ve paid the toll,” the man barked.
“That will be enough guff out of you,” Myrtle shot back. “If you don’t get out of my way this instant, I’ll turn you right back into a goat.”
Tori and I looked at each other.
“Bill Ruff?” she mouthed.
“Billy Goat Gruff?” I mouthed back.
It never occurred to me the old coot could hear us, but Bill Ruff had sharp ears and a sharper tongue. “Don’t be associating me with that ridiculous fairy tale,” he growled.
“Bill is a bit thin skinned,” Myrtle observed mildly. “He never has been able to take a joke.” She raised her right hand, one slender index finger held aloft. “Shall we write a sequel to that bit of fiction, Bill?”
The old man obviously didn’t like it, but he stepped aside. As we passed him, I heard some muttering that sounded like “smug, superior aos sí,” but I couldn’t be positive and I certainly wasn’t going to ask Myrtle. I didn’t want that index finger pointed at me.
The ground from the bridge sloped up to the wooden gate of the city. Celtic symbols adorned the black iron bands holding the massive planks in place.
As we stood there regarding the gate, the dragonlets hovered expectantly over our heads. Shading my eyes with my hand, I looked up at them. “You all go on home now,” I said. “I’ll call you if I need you for anything.”
I had no idea why I might need a dragonlet, but I was relieved when the creatures did as they were told and flew away.
As her eyes roamed over the gate, Tori said, “So, is this the part where we get to answer three questions before we can enter?”
“Don’t be silly,” Myrtle scoffed in clipped tones, “you’ve seen Monty Python too many times.”
Which was true.
At any rate, the gate opened of its own accord and a scene straight out of a Renaissance Faire greeted us. Men and women in modern dress moved up and down the main thoroughfare talking with their friends and neighbors who were attired in more or less Medieval clothing. Over the course of our stay, I came to understand that many of the inhabitants of Shevington spend time in our world. The people of The Valley are in no way removed from the 21st century world of humans. Quite the opposite, in fact. Trust me, you’ll see what I mean. Right now, let’s get back to the story.
Just like the countryside, the town is impeccably clean. The shops offer an eclectic assortment of wares. My eye went immediately to the leather-bound volumes sitting nestled in purple velvet arranged in the bookseller’s window. In keeping with the theme, amethyst geodes weighted the covers of some of the books, holding them open to display luxuriant, hand-dyed endpapers.
Old-fashioned fountain pens lay among the books, ornately overlaid with gold scrollwork and studded with precious stones. Bottles of ink sat in a carefully arranged pyramid off to one side. The placard in the window, written in flowing script read, “Books bound to bear witness to incantations, secrets, and recipes. - H.H. Pagecliff, Propr.”
Just across the street, an open air-cafe reminiscent of the streets of Paris, played host to assorted patrons. Some were engaged in lively conversation, while others were bent over game boards or absorbed in their reading. The scene could have been straight out of our own espresso bar, except we don’t typically serve the drinks by levitating them over the crowd and gently landing the cups in front of the customers.
There were food carts selling fresh fruit, vegetables, and hot dishes that smelled so enticing my mouth watered. As we watched, a young man whizzed by on a skateboard -- that was hovering about six inches off the ground.
I heard the sound of hooves on the cobblestones, and then Tori gasped, clutched my arm and pointed with her free hand. “Is that what I think it is?” she whispered.
Since the moment we’d found out about my powers, Tori kept asking one question. “Are unicorns real?”
She was looking at her answer.
The man leading the unicorn mare must have seen the expression on Tori’s face, because he brought the creature over to us, smiling kindly at Tori who was trembling with excitement.
“Have you never seen one of the beasties before, miss?” he asked. He tipped his cap to Myrtle and said, “Good day to you, aos sí.”
Myrtle answered him with a gentle smile. “And to you, kind sir,” she said. “May my young friend pet the mare?”
“Of course,” he said. “She’s gentle as a lamb, this one.”
No matter what else I might have grappled with over coming to terms with the existence of the magical world and my growing role in it, that moment watching Tori made it all worth it. She reached out with both hands, gently laying them on either side of the unicorn’s muzzle.
“Hello, pretty girl,” Tori whispered. “Do you know you just made my dream come true?”
The unicorn bobbed its head up and down.
“You do know, don’t you,” Tori crooned. “Are we going to be friends?”
The animal nickered, lowered her head, and delicately rested it against Tori’s shoulder, being exquisitely careful with the twisted horn in the center of her forehead. Tori wrapped her arms around the unicorn’s neck. “What’s your name, darling?”
“Her name is Blissia,” the man said, “and I’m Ellis Groomsby, head stableman of Shevington. You come to the stables any time, miss. They’re just down at the end of the main row here. Go to the left at the bottom of the hill toward the grove of trees and you’ll find us.”
He tipped his cap and Tori reluctantly released her hold on the unicorn. “I’ll see you later, Blissia,” she whispered, “and I’ll bring you an apple.” Then, catching herself, she looked up at Ellis. “Can I bring her an apple?”
“Best be bringing two, miss,” the man laughed. “This one’s got quite the sweet tooth.”
Tori watched as Ellis led the unicorn away, pure joy filling her features. “They are real,” she said. “Unicorns are real.”
I’ve seen Tori’s bucket list and a lot of the things on there are kind of impossible -- or at least I thought they were until I watched my BFF hug a unicorn.
Amity put her arm around Tori’s shoulder. “I’ll walk down to the stables with you after supper,” she said. “I like the unicorns, too, but the griffons are my favorite.”
“Humph,” Festus snorted. “Griffons. Can’t make up their minds if they want to be cats or birds. Damned nuisance. Why in the name of Bastet would anyone want a creature that sheds and molts?”
“Ignore him,” Amity said. “I think he’s overdue for his worming.”
That won her a furious glare. “Put me down, boy,” Festus commanded. “I have my own business to attend to.”
“Dad,” Chase hedged, “don’t you want to come with us to the center of town and at least say hello to Barnaby and Moira?”
“I’ll be along before the talking starts,” Festus said. “Now put me down.”
Heaving a resigned sigh, Chase went down on one knee. Festus hopped out of the pack, making a perfect three-point landing. He shook out his fur and limped off down a side street without another word.
“Let me guess,” I said sympathetically, “The Dirty Claw is down that way.”
Chase’s face fell. “You heard?” he said.
“We all have parents, Chase,” I answered, trying to hide my grin. “You have to let them grow up sometime.”
That won a round of laughter from the whole group, which seemed to put Chase at ease. “Don’t ever tell Dad I said so, but they can be an entertaining bunch of old coots,” he said ruefully. “ Just imagine a pack of half-drunk tomcats stoned on nip trying to out lie each other. And the worst part is that I'm related to most of them.”
“You can’t pick your relatives,” I consolingly.
Little did Chase know it, but he would be taking me to The Dirty Claw.
A tomcat bar, with actual, feline tomcats who are related to Chase? No way I was missing that.
We followed Myrtle though the streets of Shevington. As we drew closer to the center of the city, I became aware of Dílestos. The staff had been so instantly familiar in my hand; I’d been carrying it all that time without much thought. Now, however, the wood seemed to quiver in my grasp.
When I asked Myrtle about it, she said, “The staff senses the nearness of the Mother Tree -- her mother. She anticipates the reunion with joy.”
Until we rounded a corner and stepped into the central square, I didn’t know that I was about to experience a reunion of my own. Aunt Fiona stood at the base of the Mother Tree, in full, living color.
14
If we’d been in a movie, I’d have done something like run forward in slow motion while poignant music swelled in the background as I threw my arms around my aunt. Yeah, well, we were shy a choreographer to work out the whole dramatic reunion. Instead, I sort of stumbled in her direction and blurted out like a complete idiot, “You’re alive?”
Aunt Fiona smiled at me brightly. “Oh, yes, dear. I’m afraid we’ve been playing . . . well, sort of a game of charades.”
Except she conveniently forgot to tell me it was a game.
“But, you showed up in my kitchen, all pale and . . . and . . . glowy,” I protested. “We buried you. Wait. Who did we bury?”
Looking mildly offended, Aunt Fiona said, “You buried a facsimile of me, which is the only reason I didn’t protest that pink polyester funeral garb your mother picked out.” She paused and let out with a wounded sniffle. “If I didn’t know better, it almost sounds like you wish I were dead.”
I groaned inwardly. Aunt Fiona was not without the same drama queen streak that drove me nuts in my mom.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I don’t wish you were dead. I’m very glad to see you.”
That’s when I hugged her.
I was glad to see her, but I also wanted to verify that she was, indeed, in the world of the living. With an Aunt Fiona story, fact checking is generally a good thing.
When I stepped back, I smiled at her, and said, “I just don’t understand how you managed the whole . . . charade. You were pretty convincing.”
Mollified by the compliment, Fiona answered happily, “I was, wasn’t I? Have you ever heard the expression ‘smoke and mirrors?’ Well, that’s how we did it.”
That was an opening to actually get some details.
“We?” I prodded.
“Moira helped me,” Fiona said. “We used one of her magical mirrors to project my image across the in between into our regular time stream. Well, the stream where the store is. You know what I mean. Think of it like one of those holo-tele-micro-gram . . . things.”
In spite of myself, I smiled. “Hologram,” I said. “But holograms can’t interact with their environment, Aunt Fiona. You moved things. You petted my cats. How did you pull that off?”
Fiona blinked at me as if I’d just asked something incredibly silly. “Well, dear,” she said a little patronizingly, “it is a very good projector. After all, it belongs to an Alchemist.”
Right. I knew that.
Exchanges like this with Aunt Fiona can circle around and go nowhere for hours. I opted to leave well enough alone and sort out the details later. Instead, I went after the motive.
“Would I be completely out of line if I asked you to at least tell me why you decided to impersonate a ghost?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s simple, dear,” Fiona said. “There were two reasons. First, I wanted to move to Shevington full time, and I wanted you to have the store, which was so much easier to do if I played dead. The legal system can be so annoying.”
She paused, pursing the corners of her mouth as if she were about to confess something huge. “And, well, I have to admit I hoped that living with Myrtle might inspire you to discover and embrace your true heritage. I never dreamed you’d ask for your magic so quickly and put all of this in motion. You’ve saved us ever so much time dear.”
Yeah. Go me. One half-awake “sort of” request and look what it got me.
By this time, Myrtle and the others had joined us. Chase swept Fiona up in a big hug, lifting her off the ground and twirling her around in a circle while she giggled like a girl. When he put her back down, he said, with mock sternness, “You are a rascal.”
Amity shook her finger at Fiona. “You could have told me at least,” she scolded.
“Oh,” Fiona said, her eyes going wide, “I couldn’t do that Amity. You never have been able to keep your mouth shut.”
Tori was next up for a hug, and then Myrtle and Fiona clasped hands. My aunt said something in Gaelic I didn’t understand. Myrtle answered in the same language, and then they both turned and smiled at me.
I regarded them both with raised eyebrows. “Okay, you two,” I said, “I’m guessing there’s a whole lot more to this story.”
Myrtle laughed. “Yes, there is a great deal more. I would like to apologize for my role in Fiona’s ‘charade.’ All I can tell you is that it was for the best. Now that you know why your mother chose to turn her back on her ancestry, surely you can understand that her decision complicated things for us in working with you.”
That was fair.
“You have surprised us at every turn,” Myrtle went on. “None of the events of this summer have been orchestrated. You’ve handled everything that has been thrown at you in a manner that has far exceeded our expectations. We’ve tried to both help you with the immediate circumstances with which you have been presented and prepare you for all of this at the same time.”
She circumscribed a circle with a wave of her hand.
All of this.
Shevington.
A different stream of time. A different world. Metaphysical politics. Good witches. Bad witches.
Suddenly a gentle whisper stirred in my mind. “They did the best they could.”
Startled, I looked around. “Who said that?” I asked.
“I did,” the voice spoke again.
In my hand, Dílestos quivered.
What had I been thinking? We were standing under the spreading branches of the Mother Tree. I let myself get so preoccupied with Aunt Fiona’s smoke and mirrors I forgot where I was.
Let’s pause for some factoids. General Sherman, a giant sequoia in California, is the biggest tree by volume in the world. It’s about 2,000 years old and stands just less than 275 feet. That’s enough mass to take up about half of an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The tallest tree in the world is a California redwood that tops out around 380 feet. At only 800 years, it’s a gangly teenager compared to the General, but it’s higher than the Statue of Liberty.
The Mother Tree makes them both look like saplings.
Standing in her presence, you know her roots reach to the bedrock. The gentleness of the tree’s voice belies the solidity and grace of her connection to the beating heart of the earth. Her wisdom resonates with the timbre of gravity more than gravitas. The Mother Tree compels communion. For all the breadth of her knowledge, she courses with curiosity. While her patience is immense, no measure can gauge her compassion and interest. She exists to learn.
It may seem silly, but I opened my mind to her and said the first thing that occurred to me. “I’m sorry I was ignoring you.”
“With good reason,” the answer came. “A ghost come back to life demands notice.”
I started to ask a question, and then stopped myself. The Mother Tree heard me anyway.
“You are here as I am here,” she said. “To learn. Attend to those who approach. Come to me when you wish to speak.”
The Mother Tree didn’t point, but I still knew in which direction to look. A man and a woman strode toward us over the expanse of verdant lawn accompanied by . . . R2D2?
I blinked and squinted. At a distance, whatever the third figure was looked exactly like a rolling barrel. Then the breeze caught a long, white beard and blew it out to one side. The ‘barrel' was a stout little man trundling forward on stumpy legs. He was almost as thick as he was tall. As they drew nearer, I made out a grin splitting his aged, merry face. Then he raised one stubby hand and waved excitedly to Darby.
The little brownie couldn’t contain himself. He broke into a run, tackling his friend enthusiastically. They went down on the grass, rolling in a happy ball.
“I’m guessing that’s Dewey,” Tori said in a bemused voice.
“Gee, ya think?” I laughed.
The couple coming toward us stepped around Dewey and Darby. As they neared our group, the tall, dark-haired man held out his hand. “I’d say they’re happy to see one another, wouldn’t you?” He had bright, blue eyes and wore a grizzled, close-cropped beard. “I’m Barnaby Shevington,” he said, “and I am delighted to welcome you to our town, Jinx, and you, Tori.”
He shook each of our hands in turn, greeted Amity, and then bowed formally to Myrtle, “Well met, aos sí,” he said.
“Well met, Lord Mayor,” she answered. “Fare thee well?”
“Well, indeed,” he replied before holding out his hand to Chase. “Young Master McGregor.”
“Hi, Barnaby,” Chase grinned. “Ready to lose to me in chess again?”
Barnaby clucked his tongue. “Do not be so confident, young one,” he cautioned. “Cigars, brandy, and a game tonight?”
Chase hesitated for just a fraction of a second. Then, gathering his resolve, he said, “I’d like that . . . after I walk the wall with Jinx.”
I had no idea what “walking the wall” meant, but I liked it that Chase was putting a kind-of-date with me ahead of the Lord High Mayor. Being made a priority is definitely one way to a girl’s heart.
Barnaby took the answer with perfect grace. “Absolutely,” he said. “You know I’m a night owl. Come around when you’re ready.”
Turning back toward Tori, and me Barnaby said, “Please, excuse my bad manners. Allow me to introduce you to our Alchemist, Moira.”
Moira is of mixed elven and Druidic descent, which makes her remarkably “handsome.” You know, the way the word is applied to women like Angelica Houston? Attractive, but strong and robust. Like Myrtle, Moira is tall, but with none of the lithe, winsomeness that is part of Myrtle’s true form. Moira is a woman who looks like she could stand against a raging storm and dare the tempest to move her.
Witch at Last: A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 3 (The Jinx Hamilton Mysteries) Page 11