by Jeremy Craig
I even managed to almost smack him in the leg once, almost. That bit of cheek earned me a doubly long drill session and run before I had to rake the yard and hit the books before supper.
Chapter Four
Revelations, the Owl, and the touch of tragedy…
On my second week at Gramps’ the old man arrived. We just woke one morning to find him sitting on our porch, sipping hot cocoa from a dented thermos cup and munching on a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit sandwich. On the table beside him at his elbow sat an old dinged up steel lunchbox like you’d see in a factory breakroom and a battered grey cowboy hat.
He sat there on one of Gramps’ green painted Adirondack chairs with a blanket over his lap. Manx rushed up to him the moment the front door opened enough for the fluffy brute of a Witchound to force his way out, rubbing against the old man’s blanketed leg and whining for a treat. He scowled and popped the rest of his sandwich into the dog’s waiting mouth and scratched under Manx’s chin vigorously as he ate.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Gramps growled as he offered the old man his hand, which was pointedly ignored as he unwrapped another sandwich from his lunchbox and started to happily munch away on it. Gramps sighed and folded his arms, patiently waiting. I wasn’t so patient.
“Who are you?”
The old man stopped chewing, swallowed, and regarded me with a cold, flat look. Shaking his regal, long, jet-black hair sadly as he licked the crumbs and such off each finger then tossing the rest to Manx who caught the half-eaten sandwich in midair.
“I’ve had many names. Not all of them kind, some deserved, more than a few I can’t pronounce and most I’ve forgotten. What…or who are you?” He finally answered unhelpfully as he fished a fried hash brown from his lunchbox and heavily salted it with one of those tiny paper fast food rip-open packets.
“I’m Ben,” I answered. “Just Ben.”
I, too, offered a hand. My answer seemed to befuddle the old man as he studied me a moment with his big, haunted looking dark brown eyes before a ghost of a smile crept onto his deeply lined face, and he engulfed my tiny fingers in his own and shook it.
“Pleased to finally meet you. I’m called White Owl – and perhaps a few other things.” He patted me on the head, scuffled my unruly mop of hair and indicated a chair for me to sit at his side.
I obliged and was even offered a colorful striped knit blanket to ward off the October morning chill. He pulled it from his lunchbox like one of those mundane magicians pulling seemingly endless strings of handkerchiefs from a top hat or sleeve. It was in that moment as I covered my lap that I noticed the strange, wide eyed look on Gramps’ haggard face as he stood there, mouth open a bit, staring after the exchange in muted, disbelieving silence.
“A little bird tells me you had an interesting encounter. Tell me about it,” he asked as he sipped at his thermos cup of steaming cocoa while absently scratching behind Manx’s ears with his free hand. The happily begging and panting Witchound’s head all but in his lap, watery eyes rolling back with one paw wiggling and working the air in contentment.
“It was just the Clampetts being themselves trying to scare the boy.” Gramps waved dismissively. “Nothing to get all worked up about.”
“Not you,” White Owl corrected sternly. “Young Ben, when you came into your power in that parking lot, tell me, what did you see?” Before I could answer he stopped me with a raised hand. “I need you to think, carefully and tell me everything. The smallest detail could be important.”
At this I noticed Gramps turn serious. We had yet to talk about this, although he kept saying he meant to, as his estranged son hadn’t been all that specific as to what I’d seen when the Oldfable spell had slipped from my eyes.
“It was a family in a Volkswagen bus.”
The old man nodded seriously, patient and stony faced as he sipped at his soda. “I see. What was strange about them?”
“They all had white hair and shiny eyes like crystals. And pointy teeth. That’s about it. Is that important?” I asked, excited that I may be able to help in some way by telling them this. Both older men, however, had gone quiet and very still. White Owl’s eyes had narrowed, and he was nodding to himself as if this confirmed something he had been worrying about.
“Tell me, did they see you?” This question drew a sharp glance from Gramps. He leaned unsteadily against one of the four thick log beams supporting the porch’s roof. A red oil lantern hung from each of the beams in the cradle of a hammered iron hook. I remember him looking a little pale, shaky, and sick as he waited for my answer with the rapt, horrified look one would imagine of a condemned prisoner preparing to be marched out to the gallows.
“Yes,” I replied with a frown, memories of that night swimming before me with a mixed accompaniment of feelings. I never had gotten to put on that werewolf costume or eat any of that candy corn. They were likely still in the bag, probably on the kitchen table where Mom had left it in the mysteriously frantic rush to call Gramps and get me to the lodge. On the way, there had barely been time to stop for food, as Dad had insisted it was essential that we keep moving and not spend too much time in any one place until we reached Craggmore Lodge’s gates.
I remember our last meal together had been a rushed, quiet, and sad affair. Consisting of sodas, burgers, and fries at a deserted McDonald’s whose only other occupant was an old man sipping at his coffee.
To this very moment I can still picture it clear as day as for some odd reason he had kept adding sugars to the same cup, stirring it, taking a sip then grumbling, shaking his head disgruntledly as he added more then took another unhappy sip, as if he’d been stuck in some odd loop.
As I child I marveled that the tiny seniors discount cup held that much coffee, as he had been there before we arrived and was still sipping away and adding sugar packets well after we left. Now, myself a much older, more experienced, and darker thing, I can’t help but feel for the old ghost. Life can be hard; and while there are plenty of fates worse than death, I assure you some after lives of the departed can be nightmarishly bleak.
Especially when one is so obviously and tragically unaware of the metaphysical change in one’s status, and like many souls with unfinished business or deathly dementia (a term for the departed spirits who live in an unending loop completely ignorant of their death, and reduced to a hellish redundancy, essentially stuck in a postmortem ethereal rut), this old ghost was lost. Reduced to a hiccup in time waiting for the universe to take a breath and gift him a slice of peace that was unlikely to ever come.
I even went back to visit one year in a fit of macabre nostalgia and found him right where I’d left him—though I could offer him no peace, we had an odd but helpful conversation nonetheless as he ripped into packets of sugar and told me things I had to hear. I still go back every now and then, just for conversation and coffee with one who has become a very old friend.
So, back to the tale at hand, eh?
I told Gramps and White Owl about the little girl in the car seat who had waved at me, how the father had noticed me and how frightened he’d seemed as he frantically rushed to get his pregnant wife to pile into their bus, and how they’d peeled out of the parking lot as fast as they could with what I could only describe as sheer panic and terror.
As I sat there staring at my boots spilling my guts about what I assumed would be the worst day of my life, I couldn’t help but note the similarities between our two families. I wondered with a melancholy sigh if their lives and circumstances had been as turned on their heads after seeing me as mine had been after seeing them.
I remember Gramps cursing under his breath after tossing the contents of his coffee cup out past the porch, before stomping angrily back into the house and slamming the door behind him. I was scared. I didn’t know what was wrong or what I’d done or why he was so mad. I just sat there trembling under my blanket, pale and cold, but not from the chill morning as Manx whined and stared at the door.
“He’s not ups
et with you,” White Owl assured me as he took the last bite of his hash brown, licking the salt from his fingers as he studied me in silence a moment before continuing. “He’s angry at the world, furious with himself, and frightened because he is even now learning as I’d so often warned, that it is far too late to make peace for old sins.”
Utterly confused and more than a little frightened myself, I gawked at our unexpected guest as he lavished scratches under Manx’s chin in an effort to cheer the unsettled Witchound up. As if the universe had decided I wasn’t yet uncomfortable enough, my stomach growled embarrassingly.
White Owl glanced over and sighed as he reached into his lunchbox. He tossed me a warm breakfast sandwich carefully wrapped in yellow paper that I only just managed to catch as Manx licked at his jowls, eyeing the potential treat hungrily.
“Eat. It helps. No spell, potion, or tonic I’ve known comes close to the magic of a good, heavy, greasy meal. The unhealthier by today’s standards, the better. In moderation, of course,” He reassured sagely as he unwrapped another from his seemingly bottomless lunchbox and took a big, happy bite.
And this was the point of my life I blame for my addition to breakfast sandwiches when I find myself at a loss. Something about the toasted buttery English muffin, slightly spicy sausage, melty cheese, and egg seems to set things right back into perspective. Even better with coffee and a nice salty hash brown.
The Master likes to call it “food for thought” and firmly attests that indulging in a good feast is just the thing to help you work through a problem or bad mood. It’s a habit I’ve taken up with gusto. So much so that I think there are some weeks White Owl and I are personally responsible for the inflation of the local fast food places’ franchise profit margins.
A whole day passed of Gramps standing by the phone, making frantic calls in languages I didn’t understand and almost manically pacing as he grumbled to himself. He had poured himself five cups of coffee, all of them sat untouched and stone cold where he had left them about the living room.
Manx studied him mournfully, looking up at him from between his paws and whining from his spot by the crackling fire, while White Owl sat in gloomy silence on the sofa. A pair of gold rimmed spectacles sat at the tip of his rather large nose that he kept pushing back up to the bridge of every hour or so as he flipped pages and grumbled to himself. He was deeply engrossed in the tattered book—despite the fact that it was upside down in his hands—titled: Astrophysics and its Effects on the Philosophy of the Five Realms of Sorcery.
The whole while the ornate, golden faced clock ticked over the mantle, chiming every hour and half hour to mark me sitting there on the sofa sleepy, anxious, and waiting in dread for something awful that I felt lingering in the shadows. I didn’t know what it was, but I had a building fear that it had something to do with my parents. So, I just sat there miserably hugging my knees expecting the other proverbial shoe to drop on my life like an executioner’s axe as Manx snored on his back in his spot by the fire.
It was quarter past nine when the phone rang and was snatched up before the tone could even finish its first note. There were a few moments of cold silence as Gramps listened, then he fell to his knees, utterly inconsolable.
White Owl was almost instantly at his side helping him to his feet and to his favorite squishy leather chair by the fire. That was the only other time I ever saw Gramps cry, and my heart broke for him even as it thundered in my chest with such dread that I could hardly breath. When he finally calmed down enough to speak a few moments later, he tearfully beckoned me over to break the news.
Chapter Five
Breakfast, lessons, and demons oh my…
“I’m sorry to hear about your mum and dad,” the tall, pretty, amber eyed, raven haired teenager (about a year older than myself) in the black dress said as she walked past our booth. Hand in hand (and not looking particularly happy about it) with a lace gloved woman in a scarlet belted dress with a shiny jeweled golden buckle shaped like an elk or stag (I couldn’t tell which). The older woman didn’t even seem to notice her charge had spoken as she all but dragged her to another booth along the many photo hung far wall of the Wayfarers.
I sat there alone at our table. My fork sat poised by my slightly open mouth with a hunk of chocolate chip pancakes dripping syrup back onto my plate (I’m almost positive this was both my first time out of my room and very first meal since I’d gotten the news as I was far too heart sick to be hungry or talk. Right up until then I wasn’t given a choice and it dawned on me that I was absolutely ravenous and even more lonely). I stared a bit awkwardly after them as they sat and ordered chocolate milk and a mint tea for the woman.
The girl’s unexpected kindness was a pleasant surprise. I honestly wasn’t surprised she knew, as everyone seemed to. Evidently my parents’ murder was the talk of the town and had caused quite the stir. Small towns are like that—rumors and juicy news spread like wildfire, especially bad news. Especially bad news pertaining to Darklings in Feyish communities.
Most, however, tended to avoid speaking to one about it, even young, not yet ascended ones. I’d learned when White Owl had drove me into town that most preferred to stare and maybe offer a sympathetic nod. The ever-kindly Mama P being the only exception to the rule I’d met thus far.
The woman in scarlet, who looked maddeningly and impossibly familiar (but for the life of me I couldn’t place her) busied herself with her slightly upturned nose buried in the menu and again, didn’t seem to notice the girl tossing me a wave and sad little smile as her tall glass of chocolate milk arrived a few minutes later. Though Mama P, who had just taken their order after serving their drinks seemed to find the whole thing quite adorably amusing as she afforded me a sly, blush inducing wink as she rushed off to convey their requests to the kitchen.
White Owl returned to our booth from the restroom and rubbed his many ringed hands together in anticipation as he gazed hungrily down at the plate that had arrived while he was indisposed.
He sat with an exaggerated sigh and eyed me curiously. Then he tossed a curious look at the girl that was sipping at her straw and rolled his dark eyes, shaking his head as he lifted one of the three breakfast sandwiches up and took a bite.
“It’s good to distract yourself. Particularly now,” he advised as he chewed the huge mouthful with obvious relish. “But don’t distract yourself too much, little one. Your grandfather will be home soon, and we still have much to do. Don’t lose your wits—at times they are all you have between you and…unpleasant consequences.” He swallowed and gave me one of those rare smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
What he was referring to would be that Gramps was out on an investigation, looking into my parents’ murder at the burned down wreck that had once been our happy home in the middle of suburbia, and was expected back any day now. In that time there was much he expected me to read from those big, clunky enchanted books of his.
He’d even hinted he would be quizzing me on it when he got home, and that if I failed to meet his expectations the penalty would be most unpleasant, especially if he discovered it wasn’t done because I’d been wallowing in my guilt and pain like a mute hermit since he had driven off on his hunt.
I had a sudden waking nightmare of scrubbing at his old pots and pans until my fingers wrinkled like peach pits and doing pushups until I couldn’t feel my arms. I had a lot of work to do to catch up, and not a lot of time left to do it.
I nodded back at White Owl absently as lots of thoughts swam about and almost mechanically ate my hovering forkful of chocolate chip pancakes. Food did help. I’d learned that lesson well as I cut into the remaining cakes, intent on downing it before it dissolved into rings of mushy, syrupy goop.
We eventually had a productive afternoon after arriving back at Craggmore for a brief siesta (the Master insisting we first needed a break between eating and good old hard old fashioned bookworming to allow for proper digestion) during which we settled into a spirited session of cards where
he insisted on teaching me blackjack (which he insisted was an essential life skill) at the lodge’s dining room table.
After about an hour of being happily trounced at cards (he scoffed it off as beginners’ luck) White Owl lackadaisically ran me through Gramps’ prescribed exercises and drills. All the while munching on a candy bar and sitting on a lawn chair with his feet propped up on a cooler full of ice and beers. One of which he was sipping at.
Next, he regaled me with some history over lemonades on the porch, particularly covering some of the History of the Adirondacks. Which evidently was home to some exceedingly rare, dangerous, and reclusive breeds of Were-beasts, which are simply Fey that can turn into beasts.
The born changing at will, and the bitten only on the full moon. (This is evidently one of the ways a mundane can become infected into becoming Fey, and accounts for more than a few disappearances of hikers over the years) Which of course inspired a whole subset of mundane human films that I will always deeply enjoy, especially now that I’ve become better acquainted with the packs.
He also advised that Darklings, however, are happily inherently immune to the contagion in a Were-beasts’ venom, which is one of the reasons why Gramps patrols the park, to keep the packs from getting up to too much mischief and mayhem.
Which thankfully, hadn’t happened since the ascension of the last shapeshifter (a Were-beast with golden eyes capable of mimicking both human and beast forms that has the potential to unite the packs) in 1754 which led to some fairly savage raids and battles in the deep woods of colonial America.
There was even notation here that a Shapeshifter was one of only two beings that when in Feydom, a Wizard or Darkling couldn’t see through their veneer of flesh to what they really were beneath. (The second category is Reapers, which at the time I didn’t know enough about to be properly terrified of). Which was one of the reasons Feydom so deeply fears and hunted them.
