Swoon 02 - Swear

by Nina Malkin

  “Oh . . . indubitably,” she says, fixed on the monitor. “I didn’t do the room you and Marsh sleep in, by the way.” The room we sleep in—how not subtle, like she already owns the place. I step behind her chair to scope her online viewing.

  More Tiffany bling? Uh-uh, the screen displays a stately hotel, whitewashed and columned, striped awnings on the windows.

  “Lovely, is it not? Alas, it is fully occupied for the season.” She sighs, clicks, and searches. “I simply must find something.

  The house won’t be vacant till next month, and Sinclair and I certainly cannot live apart once we are husband and wife.” Vacant. I’d like to vacant her, with a vacuum cleaner. The power I felt post–journey gem is starting to deflate. So I can communicate with my cat—whoo-hoo. Antonia still seems to be getting everything she wants—my house, my man—and even has the nerve to trawl my Internet machine to reserve her honeymoon getaway. Trying my damnedest not to flounce, I exit for the porch, taking refuge in the glider’s sway.

  Yeah, except no peace for me, apparently, due to a noisy crow nearby. True, crows are typically loud enough to get your attention in a coma. Difference is, I understand the shrieking plain as day: “Casualty! Casualty!”

  A second scream: “Location?”

  “Catalpa! Catalpa!”

  As the first crow replies, I spy him, perched high in the sugar maple that gives 12 Daisy Lane such vibrant curb appeal come fall.

  Another caw, for: “Inspect and report!”

  The first crow zooms across the road to the Leonard place, host to a massive catalpa (as a kid, I called it the string bean tree)—might an injured bird be lying underneath? I hurry to investigate and find two crows patrolling and, between them, a smaller one, toppled over and very still. Now, with a scream that’s only a scream, a fourth bird dive-bombs his fallen comrade. Total ninja move. The other crows cheer as they, too, go on the attack.

  Not on my watch. “Hey!” I’m flapping, I’m stomping, I’m yelling—basically making an ass of myself, interfering with the law of the jungle.

  “Get lost, girlie!”

  “Yeah, get out of here!”

  “No! You get out. Shoo! Shoo, you sadistic dickheads!” The trio departs, minimally—winging into the catalpa to observe from above. Either they’re stone-cold killers, or the small bird is already dead and they’re merely carrion cannibals.

  On my knees I peer at the broken black blight on the otherwise pristine green. I don’t see any blood. I don’t see any breathing, either. Fortunately, I hear, faintly, “Don’t . . . gape! Help . . .”

  “You’re . . . alive?”

  An eye blinks open—a bright blue eye. “Not for long, at the rate you’re going. Come on, gently—scoop from under . . . watch the wing, I think it’s busted. Good, okay, now get me out of here before the big boys finish the job.” I rip into the Leonard house, hollering. Nobody home.

  What did I expect with no cars in the drive? Crap. The bird trembles against my chest.

  “What’s going on?” he wants to know.

  “I’m thinking . . .”

  “I know that. I hear you. What are you, some kind of witch?” Not my favorite term, but never mind the semantics. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, can’t you heal me?”

  “I conceded to witch, not orthopedic veterinarian.” But I bet I know where I can find one. Cross the street, up the stairs, into my room. R.C., queen of the duvet. Great.

  “There’s a cat in here!” the crow croaks.

  “Bird?” From guess who. “Ma . . . bird?!” I yank a drawer and lay the winged wounded on a pile of tees, then stare down R.C., who can go from zero to pounce in six seconds. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn with a narrowed gaze. Then I hit another drawer for the huge paisley scarf Marsh has dubbed my tablecloth, and tie it into a sling.

  I check the crow—respiration rapid, delicate breast heaving.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Only when I laugh,” he says, and claps his blue eyes closed.

  The harridan of Walden Haven may not recognize me when I burst into her office, but peering at my cargo, she approves my actions.

  “The doc’s on-site today,” Alice Boyle says. “Follow me.” Once the vet takes the crow, I ask to wait for his diagnosis.

  Alice grunts (her version of pleasant), so I go outside, scoping Sin. Who’s busy, I see, with one of the less appealing chores of the wildlife rescuer—but hey, shit happens . . . lots of it, apparently. So I wander on, hoping to say hi to . . . what had Sin named him, Luther?

  At first the large, woodsy enclosure seems absent of animals.

  Makes sense—forest fauna probably lie low at midday. Still, I’m fiending for a peek at the baby deer, so I slip in, my tread and even my breath careful, quiet. To no avail, since the second I’m inside I make an unwitting leap from surreptitious to celebrity.

  Nests and burrows begin to rustle, flutter, buzz. One by one the denizens of this halfway house to the wild shyly show themselves.

  Except for Luther. After all, we’ve met before. Bounding my way like a ballet ingenue, he hails me: “Dear lady!” Of course I grin at the greeting—Sin’s influence, clearly.

  “Deer boy!” I pun. As I lean forward, beckoning, the fawn . . . well, he bows to me, extending his reedy forelegs along the ground, placing his head humbly between them. It’s a little disconcerting, actually. “Luther,” I say, “cut that out,” then try,

  “uh . . . please rise.”

  The fawn obeys and comes in for a nuzzle, his wet nose a peeled grace against my palm. Which encourages other creatures to venture closer, and soon I’m surrounded. Here a hare, there a skunk. A brick-red, barrel-chested robin alights on my shoulder. And hullo, what’s that, a pineapple with its crown cut off? No, a turtle slowly yet boldly scaling my sneaker.

  Respectfully they inspect me, ebullient chatter bouncing in my brain. What a freak I must seem—a human with communion, simpatico, a beastie bond. All Arduinna et al’s doing, and as I offer the goddess major gratitude, I hear another voice—this one outside my cranium.

  “Dice . . . ?!”

  The astonishment on my boy’s face goes all the way to his hair follicles—scruffy whorls lift an inch off his head as he stares from the other side of the chain link. “Later, Luther,” I say with a quick chuck under his chin. “See you, guys,” I tell the rest.

  Then I let myself out and trot up to Sin.

  For another beat he’s simply agog. Then he says, “And I thought I was good with animals.” Again I debate giving details of my overnight in Chester.

  On one hand I want Sin to know me, everything about me, but on the flip wonder if certain enigmatic elements ought to exist between people in love. Stalling, I fill him in on the crumpled crow and, as I do, arrive at a compromise.

  “I had a dream about you,” I tell Sin. “Except he wasn’t you.

  More like your twin, especially now.” I stroke a knuckle along his bearded jaw. “You know . . . Pan?”

  He does know, and knowingly he nods. “It was a pleasant dream, I presume.”

  “Uh-huh. Sort of like those dreams that aren’t dreams we used to share.”

  “I see.” His smirk is warm with mirth. “And did you and Pan do the sort of things you and I would do?” Lifting my chin, I draw out the moment. “He wanted to, and I was curious. I mean, he’s a god and alll. . . but I—” We’re interrupted by a piercing whistle. Alice Boyle waves us toward the clinic. My escapade on pause, Sin and I sprint.

  “This is one lucky fledgling,” the veterinarian says.

  A baby! I think. Must be why his eyes are blue.

  “He’s had a shock—probably flying low, crossing the road, got sideswiped by a car. That alone might have killed him if you hadn’t acted quickly. But the wing isn’t broken, only sprained.

  Couple of days he’ll be good as new.”

  LXI

  Which is how I came to play Florence Nightingale to

  Corvus brachyrhyn
chos. The vet affirmed that he’s indeed male and, while still a fledgling, no baby—about eight months old, a teenager in bird years. I’ll call him something romantic, like Romeo. Or, no, Cromeo. Or, no, is that too corny? Can you be too corny for crows—they love corn, right . . . hence scarecrows?

  “I already have a name,” the bird informs from his well-appointed cage—a necessary precaution (if he tried to fly too soon, he could reinjure himself, and of course there’s RubyCat to consider). Walden Haven hooked me up, Alice Boyle driving Sin and me to 12 Daisy in her heap, drilling in the particulars of bird care and maintenance. Now, the following a.m., we sit together on the porch, me with my coffee mug, he with his seed cup.

  “So what’s the deal—are you always in my head?”

  “Look, lady, I don’t know how it works,” he says with a caw. “I never communed with a human before. Or are witches human?”

  “I’m human,” I say. I don’t add aloud: too human. “So what is it? Your name.”

  He screeches. It doesn’t translate.

  “That won’t work. And forget Cromeo; total cheese. How about Edgar, as in Edgar Allan Poe? He wrote a poem about a crow . . . well, a raven, but same thing, right?”

  “Wrong,” he corrects, feathers ruffling. “But close enough—we’re cousins. I’ll take Edgar.”

  We keep out of each other’s skulls awhile, which has me reflecting on the previous evening. After we got our passerine patient settled in, it was time to do something about dinner.

  So there I was, reluctantly demonstrating spaghetti sauce with basil and tomatoes from the patch while Antonia took notes and Sin sat in front of CNN, venting his frustration by yelling at the anchor dude. Good thing my cousin came by.

  If it had been just the three of us pushing down the pasta, I might’ve choked. Pen kept it all chipper and civilized, discussing Bruise Blue’s premier paid gig at our kinda-sorta friend Caroline Chadwick’s birthday party next week. Of course the convo crumpled when the significance of next week hit. Next week, maybe Crane Williams will be back on lead guitar. Next week, maybe Sin Powers will be out celebrating his recent nuptials in some seaside hotel.

  Miserably, I sigh.

  “What’s eating you?” Edgar asks. “And speaking of eating, this seed sucks. How about digging me up a nice juicy grub or worm?”

  “Since you asked, I’ll tell you: My boyfriend’s getting married in two days and guess what, not to me, so you might say I’m upset. Not that it isn’t great having you here, gabbing away, but I was hoping my magical chops would go above and beyond this Doctor Doolittle routine.”

  The phone rings inside, I hear Antonia’s tepid greeting.

  “Oh, indubitably, Justice Rodgers. Yes, that is correct—the Williams estate . . .” Every nettlesome word seeps through the window screens as she finalizes the affair. “I believe a civil ceremony ought suffice.” The judge must turn on the charm since Antonia next responds with her titter. “Yes, very well.

  A modest reception will follow—my intended and I do hope you’ll be able to join us . . .”

  Her intended. Yeesh. That mincing, persnickety manner really does nauseate me. Bet it bugged the crap out of Mae Molly, too. Not that I’m defending that sly, avaricious bit of bitchery; just wondering—no doubt she had ways of repaying Antonia for every trip down those east wing stairs with a full chamber pot.

  “Yoo-hoo, lady!” Edgar taps his bill against the bars.

  “How’s about some protein here?”

  Exasperated, I glare at him. “I have a name too, Edgar. It’s Dice. And you know what? I’ve come to the conclusion that crows aren’t very nice.” Articulate, yes—in fact, he makes R.C. seem positively Cro-Mag—but it’s obvious why Morrigan has a corvid familiar; they are, pun intended, birds of a feather. “I mean, your own social group was about to peck you to pieces yesterday—what’s up with that?” Chastising on, my voice ascends to the danger zone. “Then I rescue you, but do I get a single syllable of thanks? No! And now . . . now you order me around like a slave . . .” Oh, crap. I lose it—I do. I put my head on the wicker table and begin to blubber.

  “Oh, stop that. Dice, will you please? I’m sorry, all right.

  And I am grateful, really.”

  I slide my teary face along my forearm to find Edgar eyeing me repentantly.

  “It’s just, us crows, we’ve got a reputation to uphold—we don’t do nice. That doesn’t mean we’re bad,” he goes on. “The thing with my brethren, when one of us is down, the rest will try to put him out of his misery—a mercy killing, really.” I lift my head. Maybe that’s why the term for a flock of those mofos is “murder”—a murder of crows.

  “And you know what, you’re not in the mood to dig, don’t dig,” he says. “Although for future reference, that rhododendron you got there is a gold mine for grubs.” I sniff, stow my tears. “You are incorrigible,” I tell him. “The greediest, most self-interested little bugger I’ve ever met!”

  “You think?” he says, his ruff bristled, one brilliant eye trained on me. “Well, then, you ought to get out more.” I stare back—and realize he’s absolutely right. Mae Molly O’Rourke would make Edgar Allan Crow look like Mother Teresa. It’s high time I got in her face—and I know just who to channel to make that happen. Of course, it will have to wait till tonight. Today’s Thursday, and Tosh is off, so Bruise Blue practice is on—we’ve got another gig coming up. Besides, if I’m going to be tromping around a graveyard, I’m best off doing it in darkness.

  The best part about today’s rehearsal? Antonia Forsythe is absent. Pen dropped her at the Lovely Lady—despite a mostly grandmotherly demographic, it runs a bridal special: mani-pedi, eyebrow wax, and deep-pore facial. What a relief not having her here. We swing through the set in top form and actually have a blast.

  Until Pen says, “Uh . . . Dice—is it in or out?” And Tosh adds, “Just so you know, if we have a vote, we vote: in.”

  A fool who forgot ignorance is bliss, I ask what they’re talking about.

  Tosh glances at the rest of the guys. “Well, we’ve been calling it ‘Let You Go.’”

  Oh. That. I can take her, I’m gonna make her, she gonna let you go. The tune took a lot out of me, but put a lot into me too.

  I look at Sin, then check the rest of my bandmates, and then study the carpet.

  Marsh comes over, a strong, slender arm around my shoulders. “We know you were freestyling . . .”

  “But I recorded it on my phone,” Pen pipes up. “In case you want a refresher . . .”

  “Dice, it was so powerful,” Duck reminds. “An anthem for the romantically disenfranchised—anyone who ever had a rival, or saw the one they love trapped in the wrong relationship . . .”

  “True that.” Tosh nods in affirmation. “An instant classic.

  That’s why I’m saying we should share it with the world.” The world? Or at least Caroline Chadwick’s birthday party?

  Assuming I make it to next week? “Of course,” I say. “You’re right—we should.” I don’t look at anyone when I add, “I can do it.” Because I’m so not talking about the song.

  LXII

  One of those nights when I wish I drove. The threat of rain a psycho stalker, the clouds so low you can hear them huddle. I’m not even sure I know the way—I’ve visited the Grimley Parish Cemetery only once before, last Halloween, so I do peruse a few unnecessary hills till I find the place. But now I have. Some very old bones up in here.

  As I train my flashlight, I get my bearings and head to the eighteenth century. Marker after marker after marker—none bears the name Mae Molly O’Rourke. More than halfway through it strikes me how upwardly mobile she’d been; maybe she found some jerk of a gentleman to marry her. Did I pass a Mae Molly Something Else? I’d hate to start over, since I’m taking a leap of assumption already. The Forsythes left town within a year of their daughter’s death; Lady Anne easily could have brought her pretty, witty maid with her. Mae Molly may not have even made her ashes-to-ashes exit i
n Swoon.

  Only whoa, ho, ho—what’s this. A fancy monument inscribed maeili chadwick. Maeili. Gaelic to me, judging by my crash course in the Celtic tongue—Mae Molly a nimble conversion for a new life in the colonies. What’s more, Caroline Chadwick’s family goes way back around here, always in real estate, mega money—precisely the kind of clan an ambitious social climber would want to sink her hooks into. Maeili Chadwick, huh? Born: 1747. Died: 1809. I kneel at the grave.

  I feel at the grave. I’m still not sure, but it’s worth a shot.

  Flashlight: off. Summoning: on! “Morrigan! Persephone! Isis!

  Hel! Morrigan! Persephone! Isis! Hel! Morrigan! Persephone!

  Isis! Hel!” Thrice incant the goddess. “See me here in the black of night. Take my blood—an emblem of my devotion.” With a razor I cut the meatiest part of my palm—no biggie, really—and squeeze a thin red line. “Know the great need in me and grant the dominion only your dark rule can provide.” Now comes the tough part, imploring the goddess within and without: “Hear this song in your honor and through it bring me the one known as Mae Molly O’Rourke, whose bones lie beneath this ground and whose spirit does not rest.” No thunder, no lightning—the night still as a tomb. “Send forth Mae Molly O’Rourke so I may gain the knowledge I seek!” It’s called “Siúill a Rúin.” A haunting melody in D minor.

  The lyrics I memorized phonetically off the Internet machine, but having read the English translation, aching with sorrow and loneliness for a lost love, it feels close to me.

  And not me only . . .

  “Memory fails, but me heart knows that tune!” Yeah, I thought it might’ve been in her repertoire. An apparition shimmers before me, wealthy, elderly—Mae Molly on her burial day. Traces of the beauty that so beguiled my boy remain: the ebony tresses now polished silver, the skin still fair. Looking longer, though, I see the ravages unhappiness wrought—a mouth hard lined by perpetual frown, wattles of excess under her chin. Worst of all, flickers of dismal confusion in eyes that once so brutally assayed.

  “You are Maeilli Chadwick, also known as Mae Molly O’Rourke,” I say for confirmation.