by Terry Madden
Dish looked from Iris to Elowen, realizing they both had said something to him and he’d heard neither.
Iris motioned to Elowen, saying, “Maybe she shouldn’t be wearing Merryn’s clothes when your sister gets here.”
“I suppose not. See what you can do, if you please.”
He went to the kitchen, poured himself a Scotch, then found a place on the porch in the shade. He’d barely taken a sip when a white Fiat slowed and turned onto the gravel drive.
“They’re here,” he called into the house.
He returned to the front room to find Elowen dressed in some of Iris’ clothes. She was now a stunningly beautiful teenager with bizarre fashion sense, wearing Iris’ striped leggings, a plaid mini skirt and a black, long-sleeved tee shirt with a skull on the front fashioned from the repeated words, Judas Priest.
“It’s the only long sleeve I have,” Iris said.
“Did I say anything?”
“I’m just trying to cover up the—the glow. Jesus, does everyone look like this in the Otherworld?”
“That depends,” Dish said.
“Depends on what?”
“If you were there, everyone would look like this including you, so you wouldn’t notice.”
“Is this Connor’s woman?” Elowen asked Dish for what was probably the second time.
He turned to Iris and translated, “She wants to know if you and Connor are together.”
Iris smirked. “It’s on and off. Y’know. He’s pretty messed up, in case you haven’t noticed, Dish.”
“He’s more than ‘messed up’ right now.”
Iris pointed a hairbrush at Elowen. “But she has a plan to bring him back, right?”
Dish looked from Iris to Elowen, then downed the rest of his Scotch and rolled back to the kitchen with Iris trailing him.
When he didn’t reply, she said, “You have no idea how to get him back? Jesus, Dish. Doesn’t she know? She’s one of the magicians, the druids, right?”
The sound of tires crunching gravel came from the front of the house. The closing of car doors.
“Bloody hell,” Dish said. “Don’t forget what I told you. It would be a nice touch if you’d gotten a message from Connor in the last few days or something.”
A knock came at the door. Iris and Elowen positioned themselves side by side on Merryn’s antique settee. As Dish rolled past Elowen, she touched his arm. “Is she?”
“Is she what? Oh, yes, I would say she is Connor’s woman.”
The look on Elowen’s face was one of utter devastation. She’d seen Connor for less than two minutes; how could this make any difference to her?
“Or, she was, at one time,” he corrected.
Another knock.
“Hugh? The door’s locked.” Bronwyn rattled the latch.
Dish sighed. “Coming!”
He opened the door to see Bronwyn dressed in jeans and a jumper and Celeste standing beside her, wearing a suit of dark navy pinstripe and shoes with spike heels. She carried a valise.
“Good afternoon,” Dish said. “Please.” He rolled aside and motioned for them to come in.
“Lovely day,” Celeste said. She put a manicured hand on his shoulder and squeezed just slightly as she passed, then looked at the two girls waiting in the front room. “My, my. Yes, lovely.” She glanced down at him and gave him a smile.
He started to explain and decided it didn’t matter. Let her think he was some randy pedophile. She’d come to read the will and then she would go. He just wanted to be done with it.
“You’ve met Elowen, I believe,” he said. “This is Iris McCreary, Connor’s girlfriend. She’s just on her way north to meet him in Lancashire. Research for a project of theirs. She popped in to pay her respects.”
“Pleasure,” Bronwyn said, giving Dish a quizzical slice of her eyes. “But I believe we’ve met before? In Malibu?”
“Yes, that’s me,” Iris said. “Still hanging around.”
“Odd that Connor would miss Merryn’s funeral,” Bronwyn said.
“He’s like that,” Iris said. “Doesn’t do funerals. Too emotional. In fact, he sent a message just a day ago, reminding me to extend his heartfelt condolences to all of you.”
Celeste made a point of taking each girl by the hand, holding Elowen’s for longer than Dish thought proper. Perhaps she was Italian, the touchy-feely sort.
“Tea?” he asked as Elowen brought in the tea tray. She’d arranged the biscuits with flowers set in amongst them.
“Lovely,” Celeste said.
He nodded at Elowen, the cue they had established to indicate she was to pour. She was getting rather good at it.
“Let’s get to work, shall we?” Celeste opened her valise and withdrew a folder.
“Your friends will stay?” Bronwyn nodded toward the two girls.
“Oh,” Dish said. “Ladies, perhaps you can take a short walk?”
“No problem.” Iris took Elowen by the elbow and led her out the front door.
When they had gone, Bronwyn said, “Really, Hugh. You do like to start the rumors, don’t you?”
“I’ve done nothing of the kind—”
Celeste cleared her throat and began reading the will.
Teacups clinked in saucers until, pages of legalese later, she’d reached what sounded like the end. She read more slowly, “The cottage and farm property known as ‘Grambla’ will be held by Hugh Cavendish as sole owner. All possessions therein shall be divided only after Hugh has taken full inventory and upon his sole discretion. All of my liquid assets, savings, bonds, and life insurance policy shall go to Bronwyn Buckram, nee Cavendish, who shall defer to Hugh in matters relating to my personal items.”
“The farm? To Hugh?” Bronwyn sat rigidly, her cup and saucer beginning to tremble. “But he doesn’t even live in England.”
“Now Bronwyn,” Dish said. “There’s no use kicking up a fuss over something so out of our control.”
“Out of my control, you mean. Who was it who spent all these years caring for Merryn? Which of us ran off to Malibu to get away from family entanglements?”
“Perhaps you two will let me finish,” Celeste said. “Mr. Jory Peavey shall be retained as farm hand until he chooses to retire. To Mr. Connor Quinn, I leave my books.”
Everyone sat in expectant silence. Then Bronwyn said, “Peavey? How will we pay him? And Connor Quinn?”
“He’s been very close to her,” Dish said. “Besides, her books are worth nothing.”
“Are you intimating that all I’m after are things of worth? How could you, Hugh!”
“I mean nothing of the sort. I’ll go through her belongings and give you a spreadsheet, if you like,” he said. “Choose some keepsakes.”
“Keepsakes.” She shoved her teacup at him on her way to the door. “I doubt Merryn would approve of the company you’re keeping in her cottage.”
The door slammed before he could argue.
Celeste said, “She’ll come round. I’ve known Wyn for many years.”
“Then would you agree this behavior is not like her?” Dish asked. “She can be hard-nosed about things, but I’ve never seen her react to anything like this.”
“We all react differently to loss.”
Dish snorted a laugh. “I just can’t believe any of this. Really. Will you please tell my sister that I’d be glad to offer her any of Merryn’s lovelies here to patch things up? But there’s a reason she’s left me the farm. And I can’t explain it right now. Can you do that for me, Ms. Arundell?”
“It’s Celeste. And of course, I will let her know. She’ll calm down soon enough.” Celeste took a last sip of her tea. Her blonde hair was knotted behind her head exposing high cheekbones, a long elegant neck, and skin almost as perfect as Elowen’s. For a moment, Dish was reminded of Ava. A pang of regret caught him off guard.
“Might I offer a suggestion?” Celeste’s lovely hand with perfect red nails settled on top of his, which rested on the arm of his wheelchair.
<
br /> “Please do.”
“As you work through Merryn’s treasures, include Bronwyn in the chores. Nothing heals like working shoulder to shoulder.”
With a pat of his hand, Celeste stood, reached into her valise, and withdrew a card. She handed it to Dish saying, “Perhaps we can talk over dinner sometime soon?”
“Of course.” He started for the door to see her out, but she stopped him.
“I can find my way.”
**
Iris erupted into a fit of laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Dish said. “She left her card, nothing more.”
“And asked you to dinner.” Iris had been listening from the front porch, it appeared. “She’s hitting on you, Dish. You haven’t lost it.”
“I’m in a sodding wheelchair for Christ's sake.”
“Some paralyzed guys can still—you know—handle women. Look at Stephen Hawking.”
“I won’t have this discussion with you, Iris.”
“Involuntary muscles—”
“You’re unhinged, now let’s get to work.”
They started in Merryn’s bedroom. Stacks of books were piled on the closet floor, and Iris pulled boxes from under the bed. Dish worked through these as quickly as possible. Several hats covered a scrapbook and some trinkets of unknown origin, a letter opener, a magnifying glass, an empty bottle of eye drops, several photos of Bronwyn and Dish as children… This was the third such box they’d found.
He said, “How is this going to help get Connor back? You said yourself that finding the well won’t help us open it. I say we keep searching the brook.”
“You said Elowen has been there every day, morning and evening,” Iris said. “You have no control over that. Only Angharad does.”
The drawing room became an assembly line. They sorted photos of standing stones, ancient churches, barrows and any other monument that might remotely be connected. If arranged properly, Merryn aged from one photo to the next. And there was Lyla Bendbow posing beside stone inscriptions, one of which Dish recognized as the oldest of the Aberlemno stones. It clearly depicted two trees that grew from either side of a pool, one lit by the sun, the other by the moon. A serpent and a mirror resided one in this world, one in the other. Did Merryn and Lyla know what this meant? Was this part of finding their memories?
It was late.
Iris and Elowen cleaned up from their hasty supper while Dish gazed over the lawn of photos that covered the hospital bed. He organized them in his mind, first by locale, then by era. There was no pattern. The West Kennet long barrow and Avebury stones to the Hurlers and the Merry Maidens. Sheila-na-gigs and green men, hunky punks and church grims, peeking from the cornices of ancient churches and graveyards. All symbols of the otherworld brought across by the Old Blood upon their exile. What was it Merryn wanted him to find? Or what did she not want him to find?
Exhaustion finally claimed all three of them. When Dish finally slept, he dreamed of Lyleth. Or maybe it wasn’t Lyl. The woman was blond, and their lovemaking was desperate. Who was she? Ava? A snake wrapped around his leg and bit him on the thigh. He cried out, and the woman called to the snake, and it slithered from Dish up the woman’s arm to her neck. It wasn’t Lyleth. Nor was it Ava. Her face was covered with a veil of blood red silk, and her nails were red.
He startled awake. His hand was numb and pricked with pins and needles as the blood flow returned. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa.
A devastating loneliness overwhelmed him. With Merryn’s death, Dish’s destruction was complete. Everyone he loved had fled and left him to fade away into death, to make his way back to the Five Quarters as everyone does. His destiny had been played out. He’d fathered a child as Lyleth and Merryn had planned he would. And if Connor did not return, Dish might pay for that as well, because sooner or later, the world would know he was gone. There had to be a way to bring Connor back.
Chapter 16
Connor drew a few curious glances from the customers in the common room, but he figured it was due to the magical photograph more than his appearance. He ignored them. He could think of nothing else but the bowl of lamb stew that sat before him. His manners gave way to starvation, and he ceased waiting for Lyleth, who sat at the next table deep in conversation with this Lord Fiach. It became increasingly clear that they knew each other, and it wasn’t exactly a friendship from what Connor could tell.
He took a bite of the stew.
It was done. He’d eaten of fairy food (the grasshoppers couldn’t possibly count), and now he’d never be able to return to the other side. And he couldn’t care less. There were parsnips and apples and sprigs of mint and small onions and savory hunks of pork and the combined effect was one of utter taste bud euphoria. He must have groaned in delight, for the people at the other end of the table were definitely watching him now.
While he waited for the alewife to refill his bowl, he stole glances at Fiach. Lyleth’s back was to Connor so he couldn’t read her face. Fiach sat in the shadows. His red hair was hidden for the most part by his cloak, except for a braid that trailed over his chest. It rang with a soft chime from the tiny bells that dangled from it. Fiach had a rugged face that might have been handsome when it wasn’t all twisted up in frustration at the woman who sat across from him.
Their argument gained volume until Connor heard Lyleth demand, “You’ll send word of Talan’s madness to IsAeron and the northern chieftains. They must know.”
“To what end?” Fiach cried. “War?”
Lyleth proclaimed for all the guests to hear, “When he wakes the Crooked One, there will be war, Fiach. For the Sunless will stand by his side and this plain will see slaughter once again.”
The common room fell silent. A few hushed whispers erupted as they recognized their lord at last, his cover blown.
Fiach took hold of her hands, but she shook him off. “Will you take me to my daughter?”
When he failed to answer her, she stood and proclaimed to the attentive crowd, “The king has loosed a pestilence on your land—”
Fiach’s arm closed around her as he said, “All right. All right. I’ll take you to her.”
As Connor dug into his second bowl of stew, he wondered what it was Lyleth intended to do once she had her child within reach. Everything he considered would have consequences, not only for Lyleth, but for Connor too, and he wished not to share in them.
He put down the horn spoon and stared into the bowl of stew.
The food of this world could not possibly keep him here. He was walking around wearing a corpse. No amount of brick dust could conceal that. His beard had stopped growing, meaning his cells were not dividing. The small amount of sleep he found was marked with an expanse of darkness, a void that kindled a familiar terror. Why familiar? How long would it be before this flesh started to decay? Hopefully not before he found a way back. He fostered a small hope that this child of Lyleth’s might be able to send him.
**
Dylan wasn’t well enough to accompany Lyleth, so it was decided that Connor would stay back with him and see to his recovery. Besides, keeping Lyleth hidden from Talan would be hard enough without having to conceal Dylan as well. It made sense that Connor and Dylan would wait at the alehouse for Lyleth to return.
Fiach paid the alewife for the room and gave Connor a pouch of silver coins.
The first thing he did was to take back the photo of him and Iris at senior prom. It wasn’t sentimentality; it was a link to that other world he had to keep foremost in his mind.
Lyleth had given him lengthy instructions for the changing of bandages and poultices and steeped teas. Dylan’s fever had already fallen, so Connor felt confident that he could handle it.
Dylan was a talker. Connor heard about how he had met Nechtan, how he had met Elowen, their years on the Isle of Glass, their lessons with the druada there. Dylan was training as a weapons master, and Elowen was training to be a healer.
In two days, Dylan was strong enough to walk to the common
room for his meals. The alewife had made pigeon pie, and though Connor was skeptical, it tasted like nothing served in the land of the dead. Special pigeons, no doubt.
“You and Elowen were planning to marry?” Connor asked Dylan between bites. The memory of Elowen’s kiss replayed like a video loop in his head.
“Aye. At Lúghnasa.” Dylan’s sadness was palpable.
It was a poor choice of questions. “We’ll get her back,” Connor told him. “Angharad sent her, she can get her back.”
Dylan pushed his food around the plate with his meat knife. “What about you? You have a woman in the land of the dead?”
“Not really, no.”
“Do men and women… you know, enjoy each other’s flesh there?”
Connor had to laugh. What did Dylan think the other world was like? “Aye,” he said. “People make love, get married, have children, all that.”
“Let me see that likeness square again,” Dylan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and pointed at the money pouch Fiach had left.
Connor pulled the faded photo from the pouch and handed it to Dylan.
“She looks like your woman to me.” Dylan grinned.
“We’re friends… mostly.”.
“Sure ye are.” Dylan gave him a wink. “You look almost human with color.” He handed the photo back.
Connor tried to smile at the joke.
That afternoon, while Dylan napped, Connor made his way to the stable behind the ale house. Lyleth had locked two horses and Brixia into stalls there, in case they had to leave in a hurry, she’d said. He heard Brixia’s whinny long before he saw her.
“You need to stay here for a while longer,” he explained to the little horse. He’d stolen a carrot from the kitchen, and she took it from him greedily. If Connor wandered the town with a pony behind him, he would draw even more attention.