by O J Barré
“Well,” Lugh said as she sashayed back to stand beside him. “You’re right. It’s gone. Only powerful magic could have turned that statue into a real dragon.”
“Unless it was real all along, encased in marble and lying dormant until it was needed. Or called. Or until it had an opportunity to escape.” She gripped Lugh’s arm and looked around, frightened in the gathering gloom. “You don’t think the Darkness released it, do you?” Feeling the need to protect her, he wrapped an arm around Emily and drew her close.
“No doll, I don’t.” A golden glow settled on the cemetery, bathing the world in that eerie light that precedes the dusk. “We should get going, though. I’m not keen on cemeteries, especially after dark. And especially not this one. There’s evil afoot in the older sections.” Lugh gestured in the direction of the car. “Spells were cast here long ago to hide and protect this part of the cemetery, along with any visiting druids. That dragon was part of the protection, which means,” Lugh lowered his voice to a near whisper, “the balance has been disturbed.”
Emily shivered against him.
“To restore the balance, the breach must be mended. How is your spell work, Emily?”
“So-so,” she admitted, shame-faced. “I could use some help. Doing magic is apparently not my forte.”
Lugh tucked a curl behind her ear and studied her strained features. His feelings for her warred with his mother’s cryptic warning.
“Maybe because magic is not something we do, Emily. Magic is what we are. Who we are. Magic isn’t about knowing something; it’s about using your imagination to create things.”
He was rewarded by the flicker of a spark in the novice’s eyes.
“Before any spell, you must get in touch with the magic of who you are. Something like this.” He faced the wall, ready to talk Emily through the steps.
“I take a deep breath and silently sync the earth in my body to that beneath my feet; the water coursing through me to Earth’s rivers, lakes and oceans; the fire charging my nervous system to that in Earth’s molten core; and the air that fills my lungs with that which brushes against my face. Grounded and connected, I raise my arms overhead in a vee to open to the universal power, and speak the words with command:
“Dragon of quicksilver, dragon of gold,
Ye who protect these druids of old,
Return to your post with the greatest of haste
Defend their essence, their honor, their place.
For the druids alive, keep watch and alarm,
That we visit our loved ones without any harm.
And so it is for now and the rest of time,
Or until you are released from your duty fine.”
Lugh turned slightly to watch Emily’s rapt expression as the marble dust lifted from the earth, drawing shards and larger chunks and everything that was left of the once-guardian into a fluid mass that swirled in the air above the wall. It then coalesced into the shape of a winged dragon and hardened to a silvery marble. Emily ooo’d and ahh’d, impressed.
He admired his handiwork in the light of the early moon. Then darkness overtook the waning light and he spun toward the exit.
“Let’s go!” he urged, grabbing Emily’s arm. Then Lugh half-dragged, half-chased the Hester princess to his car.
Awen’s Handbook
H ope paced back and forth in front of the smoldering fireplace. Her fur stood on end and her fat tail twitched. Emily and Lugh had relayed their dragon tales, first Emily’s encounter and then Lugh’s spell to repair the statue. But the news upset Hope. Emily had never seen her so agitated.
The cat stopped pacing to face Emily. “Zee dragon deedn’t say anyzing? ‘e just flew away? Wizout a word?” Hope’s accent had thickened so that Emily could barely understand, but she nodded.
“Zees is important. Deed zees dragon geev you eeny sign at all?”
When Emily started to shake her head no, Hope stopped her.
“Tzeenk, Emily. You are good at zees. You read people and zeengs well. Zere was somezing, zere must’ve been. Some ‘int zat zee dragon recognized you, or some clue as to ‘ees inteentions? Zeenk!”
Emily closed her eyes and replayed the scene, looking past her fear. There had been a moment. The dragon had blinked enormous, silver eyes and there was a flash of something. Sadness? Disappointment?
“a-Ur,” Hope purred.
“What?”
The Elder settled on her haunches in front of Emily. The accent softened. “You saw sadness and disappointment.”
“Hey, you read my mind! I thought that was off limits!”
“Oops.” The wildcat didn’t look sorry at all. Instead she ogled Emily, tail thumping on the thick rug, until a speculative gleam crept into her luminous eyes.
“What?” Emily grumped, feeling violated.
“Awen’s handbook. I have looked high and low in Brigid’s library, but the manuscript eludes me.”
The nape of Emily’s neck tingled. “What is Awen’s handbook?”
“A manuscript that has been passed from one reigning Awen to the next since the beginning of the eleventh century. Because you weren’t available to receive it, Awen’s diary remained with Brigid until she passed. Your great-grandmother preferred the carriage house, so I assumed she’d hid the manuscript here. But where?” Hope stared at Emily intently.
Lugh spoke for the first time since relaying his part in the cemetery. “What would the handbook tell us?”
“Everything, my young priest. Awen’s diary is her handwritten collection of magic spells, the ones that were wielded by the most learned and powerful druid priests and priestesses. It is the only known compilation of its sort, and but a handful know of its existence. I am one. Now you two make three.”
Goose bumps danced along Emily’s shoulders. The papyrus manuscript belonged to Awen. And her mother stole it.
The cat paced the floor. “Awen’s diary tells the new Awen—Emily—what to do about a-Ur and the other dragons. Where they gather. How to call them.”
“Dragons plural?” Emily squeaked.
“Dragons plural,” Hope affirmed.
Lugh’s head bobbed, as if he knew all about dragons. “Hope, tell her about the curse.” He glanced Emily’s way and she scrunched her nose.
“It is the dragons’ job to look after Earth and all her beings. But they are bound by a forgetfulness curse that immediately wipes clean the memory of anyone or anything coming in contact with a dragon. All except the Awen. Which is why you, Emily Bridget, remember seeing a-Ur in the cemetery.”
“But I’m not Awen,” she protested, uncomfortable with the moniker.
Lugh intervened. “Maybe not. But the weather and the dragons don’t know that, Emily. You stopped that storm from destroying Jocko’s. And you brought back Hope.” He gestured at the cat. “I believe it was you who woke a-Ur. I’d say you are more Awen than you think.”
But as much as she would love to be, Emily wasn’t a powerful priestess. She was mostly inept and full of fear.
A guilty look crossed Lugh’s face. “Hey, Hope. If Awen’s diary is supposed to be secret, why tell me?”
The cat stopped grooming her thick fur to gaze at him with somber eyes. “Lughnasadh MacBrayer, you are a powerful druid priest and wise for your years. The secret of Awen’s diary and the spells therein can be trusted to you. I tell you because Emily Bridget needs your help.”
Lugh gasped, startling woman and cat.
“What is it?” Emily asked.
“That’s what Ma said!” They stared and waited for an explanation. “After the tornado, Ma’s spirit appeared to me. She said that you saved Jocko’s, Emily. And that everything now depends on you. She said you need my strength and protection. And told me to stay close to you.”
Emily stared. Lugh had discussed her with his dead mother?
“She and Pa ran across the dragons in the Otherworld. Draigs Talav and Ooschu are restless and the others are waking. I believe those were the names.” Lugh pounded his fo
rehead with his palm. “She did mention a-Ur! And another named…Tienu.”
Hope’s ringed tail twitched back and forth. “Yes, those are the four Keepers. Talav is an earth dragon, Tienu a fire drake. a-Ur, whom Emily saw, is an air dragon. Then there’s Ooschu, the water dragon.”
Four dragons. Emily gulped. And she was supposed to be able to talk to them. To call them. Command them. In her mind’s eye, a misty clearing formed. It was surrounded by craggy mountains and filled with dragons of all shapes and sizes. Emily clutched at the memory as it fled.
“And another thing,” Lugh interjected. “My mother suggested the tornadoes were produced by magic.”
“You didn’t see fit to share that in our confab with Mitchell and his lynch squad this morning?” Emily huffed.
“As Mitchell’s charges were ludicrous, it was hardly necessary. But I did pass the information along to Morgan. She and her team are following up and will let us know if they uncover any traces of magic. But this talk of dragons has me wondering. Could they be responsible for the storm?”
“I think not,” Hope said. “They are wild and unpredictable and have a complete disregard for rules other than their own, but the dragon-race swore long ago to protect the earth and its humans. No, Lugh. If that storm was produced by magic, a dragon wasn’t the perpetrator.”
Satisfied, Lugh nodded. “Ma said the four answer to Emily. Her alone. Do you think she was referring to the Dragon Keepers?”
“I suspect she was. Which is why we need Awen’s handbook. The dragons could help us defeat the coming Darkness.”
Warmth surged through Emily’s body. All was not lost. She rose from the armchair and cleared her throat. “I know where it is.”
The cat and pirate-priest stared.
Hope recovered first. “You’ve seen Awen’s manuscript? Where?”
“Wait here.” Emily hurried to the red bedroom. She slipped through the door and locked it behind her. Collecting the manuscript from its most recent hiding place between the mattress and box springs, Emily returned to the living room with the heavy tome clasped to her chest.
“Awen’s handbook!” Hope yowled. “Where did you find it?”
Emily laid the papyrus manuscript on the coffee table and sat on the aubergine sofa. “Oh, it found me.”
Hope rubbed against her leg, meowing up a storm.
“Wow.” Lugh sat beside Emily and lightly traced the carving on the thin, wood cover—a lightning bolt striking an oak tree with three stars overhead in an arc.
Hope stood on hind legs, front paws resting on the coffee table and nose sniffing the binder. Looking up, she urged, “Go ahead. Open it. Let’s see what Awen has to say about the dragons.”
Emily lifted the front cover with reverence. The inside page was sprinkled with hand-drawn stars depicting constellations. The facing page was covered in small, spidery figures. The same squiggly lines, along with diagrams and pictures, filled the entirety of the thick handbook.
The language was foreign and though Emily had leafed through the papyrus pages almost daily since she’d found it in her mother’s box, she was no closer to understanding the glyphs and runic figures.
“What does it say?” she asked the purring Elder.
“Say?” Hope looked up, surprised. “Beats me. Cats don’t read. Can’t you?”
Emily shook her head. “No, not this.”
Lugh shrugged and leaned back. “Looks like ogham to me. It’s a secret, ritualistic language no longer in use. As far as I know, no one can actually read ogham. I learned the letters as a boy, but that’s the extent of my knowledge. I can’t make words, much less sentences.”
“Great. So, we’re still screwed,” Emily groaned.
Hope meowed and looked thoughtful. “We will find a way. Perhaps a language scholar could interpret the words.”
“I can search the internet,” Emily offered. “You never know what you might find online. How do you spell it?”
“Oh-gee-aitch-a-em,” Lugh said.
Hope wagged her shaggy head. “It’s doubtful you’ll find anything, but you can start there. I will consult the Elders. Lugh, you can check with the priests, especially in Europe. There must be an older druid there who can help.”
Lugh nodded acquiescence.
“In the meantime,” Hope cautioned, “keep this between us. Be discreet in your searches. It’s imperative Awen’s handbook and the dragons remain secret.”
**
Mitch hurried from the courthouse in Carroll County. His client’s case had been delayed until Monday. He was halfway to the car when a call came through from a Los Angeles prefix. A nasally voice inquired as to the whereabouts of one Emily Bridget Hester. Mitch stopped in his tracks, wheeling to make sure he was alone in the parking lot.
“Ma’am,” he said in a quiet tone, “I don’t know who you are, why you think I have information related to this person, or would give it to you if I did, but you’ve wasted a phone call and my time. Good day.”
Mitch pressed the button to sever the connection and stared at the phone. What in the world had possessed him? What had made him so nervous? The phone vibrated in his hand and Mitch damn near dropped it. Same number as before.
Making a decision, he answered, “Mitchell Wainwright, how may I help you?”
“You can help by giving a message to Ms. Hester. Tell her Shalane Carpenter will be at the Fox Theater in Atlanta on April 17th. Two front-row tickets and VIP passes will be held in her name at Will Call, courtesy of Reverend Carpenter.”
When the woman finished, Mitch parlayed, “If, by chance, I did happen to know a person by that name, and if, by chance, I were to agree to do as you ask, what benefit would be in it for me?”
“Mr. Wainwright, the reverend will make it worth your while, I assure you. Will you deliver her message?”
Unexpected Opposition
N ergal gaped at the images on the holoscreen, stunned by the new development. Shibboleth, the legendary warlord from Gamma Reux, had summoned him to Irkalla like a common drudge. Having ruled the southern hemisphere since the great migration—in name only for the last millennium—Shibboleth had set his sights on AboveEarth.
Over Nergal’s dead body.
The meeting was to take place in two earth-weeks’ time in Irkalla, beneath the streets of New York City. They were to discuss Nergal’s role in Shibboleth’s campaign. Anger surged through him, hardening Nergal’s resolve. He would go to Irkalla, but only to set matters straight.
Striding from his office in Xibalba IX, Nergal instructed his aide to gather the northern hemisphere commanders. He’d clashed with the warlord in the past and knew the importance of presenting a united front.
It galled him to leave his work with the reverend, but Shalane and the magic lessons would keep for a few days. As would Nergal’s search for the mysterious Ebby Panera. He’d be damned if he would let Shibboleth steal his thunder. Not this time.
Ham Comes Home
I t had taken longer than expected, but Emily was finally keeping her promise and Da was coming home. It was a fine, spring day, replete with azure skies and mild temperatures. Even better, Mitchell Wainwright was out of town and wouldn’t be around to ruin the occasion.
The east coast Hesters were gathering en masse to greet their patriarch. Curious, considering Hamilton was in a coma and wouldn’t know. But the cars arrived anyway, delivering relatives large and small. The ones Emily met for the first time acted polite and solicitous. But as a lot, they remained distant.
Elise Hester Johnson was the one exception. An odd bird of indeterminable age, Elise latched on to Emily as soon as they met. A slip of a woman, Elise had coiffed hair the color of pine straw and picked her way through the Hester pack as if loath to come in contact with another’s body parts.
The relatives that knew Emily greeted her with welcome. Maria and Sirona nearly bowled her over, wrapping little arms around her legs, one on each side. Eyes adoring, they begged for stories of California until their c
ousin Sean swooped them up, offering piggyback rides in the yard. To the accompaniment of giggles and squeals, Sean herded the girls outside with the other children. Elise went along to watch.
Finally alone, Emily seized the opportunity to browse living quarters as grand as any she had ever seen. While the carriage house was impressive, the main house was even more so, its rambling structure easily three times the size. Eager to touch everything, Emily’s hands traced the lines of exquisite lace doilies, lustrous wood, and cool marble.
There was a presence here. A hallowed atmosphere. Like God himself was in residence. Emily found this profoundly comforting—and encouraging. From the sound of things, they would need His help. She wouldn’t be here now without it.
The reverence lingered as Emily wandered into the formal dining room, where twelve-foot ceilings framed hardwood floors that glistened like burnished honey. The dark furniture and crystal chandelier transported Emily to another age, one in which she was barefoot and lower to the floor.
From the opposing archway, Morgan swept into the room with a time-worn couple in tow. Halting in front of Emily, she introduced Simon and Mary Cobb, the pair responsible for the day to day upkeep of Wren’s Roost through three generations. Emily took Mary’s and then Simon’s hand, squeezing gently.
“Thank you for taking such good care of me and Ralph. It’s great to finally meet you.” She had begun thinking of the elusive pair as fairies—fresh fruit, cat food, toilet paper, and other necessities magically appeared.
Simon’s ears reddened. He was thin and stooped, with silver hair combed across a shiny pate and in need of a trim around the nostrils and ears. The twinkle in his smile belied the groundskeeper’s shuffle. Mary beamed. She threw wiry arms around Emily and burst into tears, hugging her close. Tears sprang to Emily’s eyes as forgotten feelings flooded though her—she was loved, wanted, and even adored.
If Simon Cobb said little, his wife made up for it. She took Emily on a tour of the house, delivering a steady stream of commentary in a leathery but melodious voice. Emily delighted as memories were recounted and Mary imparted anecdotes from Emily’s childhood.