by Robert York
In any event, I’ve never been one to sing the praises or condone the use of drugs of any kind, but whatever they filled my veins with was some good stuff. I barely felt a thing. My injuries proved to be numerous but not life threatening. Aside from the cuts, bites, bruises and scratches, Glum managed to break five ribs on my left side, three of which were so badly damaged that they had to be removed and replaced with medical grade stainless steel. I’ll have to carry a little card in my wallet that states I have metal somewhere in my body. The card is purely a precaution should I decide to go to any location equipped with metal detectors. Like airports, courthouses or sporting events.
My left lung had been punctured in thirteen places by rib fragments. Surprisingly, it was seventy eight percent filled with blood. The wound on my shoulder inflicted by the Bogeyman that thought it was a chew toy required sixty-seven stitches to close. The attending doctor was perplexed by the bite. For one thing it looked uncannily like a shark bite. He couldn’t figure out how I could’ve gotten it. Because as you know, Detroit is hundreds of miles away from the nearest ocean and I was still partly clad in winter gear when I arrived at the hospital. I also had two fractures in my skull along with a nice head thumping concussion. Oh, and my hip was dislocated. I had litany of medical ailments, but it could’ve been far worse.
Barnabas told me weeks after leaving the hospital that Tilly stayed by my side the entire time I was incapacitated. As you might imagine I was fairly surprised by that news. I’d been a jerk to him at times and yet he still remained kind and loyal to me. At first I thought that it was the braid of iron around his neck that compelled him to remain with me, but after further thought I realized that the spell that bound him to his yoke of servitude compelled him to only follow my orders. Since I’d given him no such order to stay by my side he didn’t have to, which meant he wanted to remain with me. There are times more often than not that I’m humbled by the selfless actions of others. I’ve strived over the years to be a better man, but somehow I feel I’ve fallen short in my efforts to do so. Recent events have sort of shown me that I am as Mari so eloquently described me as a selfish brat. If there were a way I can help free Tilly from his bounds of slavery I wouldn’t hesitate to do so.
Adrianna, I was told popped in a few times for brief visits. Her being in the hospital was purely to check in on me, which was nice. I can remember her sweet melodic voice echoing faintly in the deep depths of my unconsciousness. I have no idea what she might have been saying, but I’d like to believe she was fawning over the way I filled out my hospital gown. Adrianna even brought a bouquet of colorful sweet smelling mixed wild flowers. Mari informed me later that the flowers were species native to Italy and quite possibly from the region where she may have been born as a human. That last part was pure speculation to be sure, but should I be reading something into that gift? There were many things arrayed against us should she and I decide to take this relationship further. The situation in the Vampire world for instance, prevented her from visiting more often. She’d be perceived as weak if she continued to show interest in her human distraction.
I’d heard through the grapevine that Bart was still on the run however; his power, followers and stash of cash were greatly diminished. Adrianna had methodically tracked down many of his illicit transactions and began a purge of personnel at her organization and in her family structure. The other families followed her recommendations as well. Adrianna is an alluring woman that’s intoxicating to the mind, body and senses. The flip side of that coin however is she’s also extremely dangerous. Adrianna is a predator. I’ve seen her in action on a few occasions and wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her anger. Having said that, I’d still risk sticking my head in the lion’s mouth if it meant I could be with her.
Wilmar or Frankenstein as I’ve been instructed to call him, decided to hang around Detroit for a while until I’d recovered from my injuries. In doing so he discovered that my original urgings to come back with us proved to be the best thing he could’ve done. He wasn’t treated as the monster he thought he’d be, in fact he gained a small measure of celebrity here in Corktown. He’s a favorite guest at parties and occasionally makes appearances on local television. He also discovered the huge following and merchandising phenomenon that Frankenstein had become over the years. Though Wilmar looks nothing like the Universal Studios version of Frankenstein, many people here in Detroit have come to associate him with Mary Shelley’s character in her novel. If they only knew he was the real Frankenstein and not an actor or cosplayer. I’m not sure if he’ll try to recover any past royalties from his likeness through litigation though, it’d be amusing if he tried. He went so far as to buy a box of Frankenberry cereal. After tasting it he wasn’t impressed. I think the things he’s most grateful for regarding his return to civilization are the Internet and the Detroit public Library. He’s been absorbing every piece of information he’s been able to get his hands on. He even came to the hospital regularly to read a novels to me while I was unconscious.
Wilmar, I mean Frankenstein informed me that he traveled back to his cabin to tidy it up before sealing it. Apparently, he couldn’t bring himself to return to that solitary existence. This world he said, held far too many possibilities not to take the time to examine and enjoy. Truth be told, the reason he couldn’t return to the wintry land of Russia was because he discovered the little Italian bistro a block or two down from the Magic Shoppe. Pagonatta’s has some delicious pasta dishes that will make your taste buds rise to attention begging for more. If that statement wasn’t compelling enough for a person to check out Pagonatta’s the items on the menu were also reasonably priced. Whatever his reasons were for staying I’m glad he decided to stick around.
Of our small band that ventured out in this quest or suicide mission or however one chooses to look at it, Glum by far suffered the most injuries. Some of course were physical while others were emotional. A few of which may never heal. Barnabas took both he and Oswald to Treena Greebott’s Wizard Sanitarium in New York City before they dropped me off at Henry Ford. Admitting a Troll the size of Glum to a human hospital wouldn’t contribute to the healing atmosphere of the place. Glum healed quickly as Trolls do then nearly wasted away not eating or drinking, holding a solemn vigil at Oswald’s bedside.
As it turned out Oswald’s injuries were even beyond the abilities of the skilled healers at Treena’s. He died quietly in his sleep on a Tuesday three days before I woke. I wept deep sorrow filled tears when Barnabas told me the news. I think I’ve said before, it’s funny how you don’t miss someone until that person is no longer around. Oswald was a kind and thoughtful man; at least to me he was anyway. He was also a good friend and member of our little extended family. I remember back when I was fifteen or sixteen years old, I was mopping the floor in the front area of the magic shop and doing a half assed careless job. Which resulted in me accidentally putting a mop handle sized hole in one of the glass display cases. Luckily, Barnabas was out delivering potions on Valentine’s Day. Oswald had been supervising my progress.
Barnabas knew that if no one were watching me I’d go off and read a comic book or something. As I recall Oswald didn’t get angry with me or yell as is quite often the norm for old brooding Wizards. I suppose having a Troll as an adopted son you tend to run into instances like these so the aggravation factor has pretty much worn off. He picked up the broken pieces of glass, waved his wand and repaired the glass case. It looked as good as new. Then in uncharacteristic fashion - because Oswald detested manual labor - he helped me finish mopping. Afterwards he took Glum and me out for ice cream at Farrel’s, an old style neighborhood ice cream shop. Where the proprietor, wore a black bow tie and shirt garters.
I didn’t think Oswald ever mentioned the incident to Barnabas because I was never punished for it. I’ve never considered myself a strong man emotionally or physically like the ones portrayed in the movies. The hero in the movie could lose an arm or a leg and it wouldn’t faze them in the le
ast. They’d just rub some dirt on their injury, deliver a signature “catch phrase” and go kill hundreds of bad guys. I on the other hand get emotional sometimes and I’m not afraid to say it. I don’t trust anyone that can’t express his or her emotions. It’s just not normal. As I think on it, I felt bad now about thinking Tilly should just suck it up when he was crying about the death of his master. Talk about being an unfeeling dick.
I was told that at the end, after many fruitless attempts, Mari had finally gotten Glum to let go of Oswald’s hand. He’d held it during his entire bedside vigil and for three and a half hours after the last traces of life left Oswald’s body. Mari being Mari, decided to bring the big guy home with no objections from Barnabas. Glum, she would later say, needed stability and a loving home. Oswald gave him that and so much more. Oswald’s funeral was scheduled for this coming Friday. Barnabas and Mari tried talking me out of going because of my injuries. My stubborn side won out however and I was going even if I barfed up a lung, not really caring about their objections. I had to go. If for no other reason than to pay respects to the man that saved our lives at the cost of his own. There are times you must put reason aside and let insanity run freely, I find it liberating.
They came to the hospital to collect me early that Friday morning for Oswald’s service. Barnabas, Mari, Glum and Tilly were all dressed solemnly in black. The protestations of the medical staff didn’t deter them from entering my room unannounced, nor did the subsequent threats of calling security as my entourage helped me to get ready. The doctors and nurses may have been frightened by Glum. He was after all an imposing figure, though the last month or so has left him thinner than I’d ever seen him. I’m not certain if the hospital’s staff grumblings were about my health and well-being or if it was the fact that we absconded with one of their wheel chairs. Mari brought something appropriate for this somber occasion; surprisingly it was easy for me to get into. A simple white long sleeved dress shirt, a pair of black slacks and tie along with a few other accoutrements to complete my ensemble. I talked her out of the suit coat, there was no way I was going to be able to wear that through the service with my injuries. When all was ready Barnabas took out his enchanted token and said “Whitby”. A portal opened and we stepped through.
The stark surroundings of my hospital room were replaced by a lush green meadow overlooking a quaint seaside town. I’d later learn that we were in a little town called Whitby, on the east coast of England, the place where Oswald was born. Two things struck me, first the town though lovely reminded me of the English town in “Bram Stoker’s classic, Dracula”. I hoped that we’d get to walk around it a bit before we had to go back home. OK… I’d be rolling. The others would be walking. The second thing that I was struck by was that it was the middle of winter and the surrounding area for a quarter of a mile was green and vibrant as though we were in the height of summer. When Barnabas wheeled my chair around one hundred and eighty degrees, my lower jaw fell open in amazement. Standing near a low roughly made stonewall was an enormous oak tree with wide inviting branches full of green lush leaves. It was the kind of tree children would spend their summer days climbing as high as the branches or their courage would allow. It was a safe tree, a good tree. I’d imagine quite a few lovers spending time under this tree watching glorious sunsets or professing undying love to their sweethearts. Barnabas pushed my chair up a gentle rise the base of the tree coming more sharply into view.
Beneath the bows of the tree was a small assemblage of thirty-to-forty people and creatures from the magical world. Some were sitting, while others stood and still others lurked, which was their habit. They were gathered loosely around a highly polished white rectangle stone slab set horizontally into the soil. The grave marker was six feet long by three feet wide and was some six to eight inches in thickness.
Standing the farthest to the left, away from the others was a group of Wood Elves, eight in all. Tall and beautiful, the Wood Elves exuded stately charm and authority. All were dressed in robes comprised of various shades of shimmering emerald greens. Each had the same long flowing chestnut hair all Wood Elves possess. Encircling their heads - at first glance - were what appeared to be tree branches woven into crowns. On closer inspection however, they were actually various types of precious metals crafted into intricate designs that mimicked natural materials. One of the Elves stood out from the others. He was a few inches taller than the rest and far more athletic in build. A sash of gold encircled his slender waist and the same colored metal accented the designs of his regal robes. The crown on his head rose higher than all the others, resembling an ornate rack of Elk antlers. King Foxmoor, Lord of all Wood Elves. I’d never met him in person, but I’ve seen illustrations of him in books covering magical beings. Frankly those illustrations didn’t do his appearance justice.
My eyes tracked to the right settling on another group. If someone wanted to draw a contrasting comparison with the Elves all one needed to do was look to the other side of the gathering where a small group of six Dwarves stood. I didn’t recognize any of them, but they resembled any run of the mill Dwarf you might encounter in our world. Based upon their dress of dark colors, blacks, browns, reds, and the choices of material making up their wardrobes being mostly comprised of tanned leather along with gruff expressions on their faces, I would venture a guess that they belonged to the Rothgar Clan. The same Rothgar Clan responsible for the rank ale I described a while back. Just don’t utter such things within earshot of a Rothgar, because they are quite sensitive to criticism. Which may explain why these particular Dwarves were conspicuously without weapons. No axes, shields, maces, hammers or daggers. A sight that was as rare as listening to a politician telling the truth.
Among the larger group of magical “people” closest to Oswald’s grave were a few Goblins standing next to the stone grave marker. Standing would be a loose description of exactly what they were doing. In actuality the Goblins were minutely examining the stonecutter’s work as they bickered amongst themselves on the estimated cost of the stone and the words cut into its surface. Goblins are the “Yankee Traders” of the magical world. I’m in no way saying that they’re not dangerous, because they are, folklore and fairy tales describe them and what they’re capable of pretty well. Ever since Goblins discovered the allure of all things valuable and their uncanny ability of acquiring said valuable items, they’ve shied away from their more violent tendencies. Preferring instead to settle disagreements with payments of precious metals, gemstones, works of art, collectables or any item they can sell for gold.
I was overcome with a feeling of surprise mixed with a healthy dose of terror to see three members of the Elder Council along with their entourage of Black Guard, six in all standing to the right of the grave marker. Oswald must’ve been someone of consequence in the Wizard hierarchy to have these particular individuals at his funeral. With my luck however they’re here because of the excursion we took to Russia. All of the Elder Council members assembled here I knew, but not personally.
Yoshida Kogon, the shortest of this trio was by far the oldest member on the council at just over eleven hundred years old. He was of Japanese decent and represented the Asian Wizard community. His baldhead shone brightly in the sun making his bushy cottony white eyebrows more pronounced. Though over a thousand years old, he surely didn’t look his age. He stood stock straight in flowing red and white robes. The staff or walking stick, he held was made of a dark wood slender in size and shape, carved with characters from the Japanese alphabet I assumed. He projected an aura of honor and nobility not often seen in our cynical modern world.
Tasetta Ranpu, the only woman on the council was of Egyptian descent. Tasetta was a few inches taller than Yoshida and like him also sported a hairless head. She was of average build and though her features were not striking she was an attractive woman. Her eyes were large and searching, set under perfectly manicured black eyebrows encircled with full long eyelashes, her eyes appeared not to miss much as they scanned the
gathering. Her robes were made of an opulent gold material that appeared to gather around her like an early morning mist after a gentle rain. She carried no staff or wand that I could see, but she wore thick bands of gold around her arms and wrists along with a few rings upon her fingers.
The third member of this trio was a giant of a man. He stood nearly seven feet tall with broad muscular shoulders and in actual fact every part of him was muscled. He had the kind of physique that you’d see gracing the cover of bodybuilding magazines. The man looked like he could’ve opened a pickle jar using only his neck. Magnus Azeroth, the leader and most powerful member of the Elder Council exuded strength and confidence in every conceivable way. From his lion’s mane of wheat blond hair right down to his care free adventurers stance.
All three simply inclined their heads in my direction acknowledging my presence, which was also the greeting that Mari, Tilly and Glum received. Barnabas however received deep bows punctuated by wary looks of suspicion. The Black Guard merely looked standoffish as they often did.
As we drew closer to the gathering I spied Race and Morgan standing near the trunk of the tree. Well, to be honest the tree mostly concealed them. Their body language was indicative of two people deeply in love or possibly lust. The lipstick and hickeys covering Race’s neck was a dead give away at what they were up too. It was my opinion that they needed to get a room or be hosed down.