Moonshine

by Robin Trent

  Pastor Poole was no more interested in invading anyone's privacy than a mouse was interested in alerting the cat to its presence. He preferred solitude and quiet reflection. However, visiting the sick was part of his job description. His carriage pulled up in front of the Merkova's front door this sunny Saturday morning. He felt funny riding around in it, but his benefactor, Mr. Augenstein, insisted that he use it for transport.

  Kristopher stepped down out of the carriage and knocked on the front door. The maid answered and bade him come into the foyer. After running off to get someone to greet him properly, he could still hear her footsteps as she moved through the house. Minutes later, Helen Barker, Elizabeth's mother, introduced herself.

  "I didn't want to intrude..."

  "Nonsense, it's no trouble at all, Pastor Poole." Helen said as she lead the pastor into the parlor. Not the greeting he was expecting after his discussion with Abigail, but then again, the woman could be abrasive, so it may not be Mrs. Barker's fault.

  "Would you like some tea?" Helen offered.

  "Why yes, that would be lovely."

  "Please be seated Pastor, while I see to it. I shall return shortly." Kristopher watched Helen's retreating back and picked a comfortable chair that had ample tick in its embroidered cushion. He looked about the parlor and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. To hear Abigail talk, he had half expected to see instruments of torture or books on the occult. In fact, the house was quite pleasant and very peaceful. He could see the morning sun slanting in through the windows, and he stared lazily at the dust motes that danced in it. Shaking his head, he realized he was a little too comfortable and was going to doze off. The good pastor sat upright and tried to remain poised as he didn't want to be rude on his first visit.

  Helen returned soon, carrying a tray of breakfast tea and lemon bread. As she set the tray down, she looked up at the pastor beaming and said, "One lump or two?"

  "Two," the pastor requested and then blushed as he watched Helen put two sugar lumps in his cup and pour the tea. "I guess I have a bit of a sweet tooth."

  "Nothing wrong with that," Helen replied as she offered the cup of tea to the minister. She cut him a slice of the lemon bread and sat that on a dainty plate in front of him on the table. Helen then leaned back in her chair and seemed to be appraising Kristopher as he consumed his refreshments. It made him slightly uneasy, like a bird being admired by a cat.

  Soon, she broke the silence. "So Pastor Poole, to what do we owe this pleasant visit this morning?"

  Kristopher wiped his mouth with a napkin and swallowed the piece of bread he had just consumed. "As pastor of the community, I felt it was my duty to see after Mrs. Merkova. It is my understanding that she has taken ill. I wanted to know if there was anything I could do for her."

  "Yes, I'm afraid my daughter has been feeling under the weather lately and has been confined to her room. It is so nice of you to inquire after her, but I promise you she is well looked after."

  "Would it be possible for me to see her?" The pastor studied Helen's face but could find nothing there but a slight annoyance.

  "Well." Helen hesitated. No one had seen Elizabeth except for the doctor, but she had been getting better. "I suppose it would be all right." Helen looked a little uncertain as she said this, but continued to rise to escort the pastor up to her daughter's room. "Right this way, Pastor Poole. You may bring your tea if you would like."

  Kristopher picked up his teacup and followed Helen out of the parlor and up the stairs.

  Elizabeth's room was dark, with the curtains pulled shut. Lying in the middle of her bed, she looked small and frail. The minister immediately felt sorry for the poor woman and silently cursed Abigail in his own mind. He was a minister, and he was not supposed to have harsh thoughts about his flock, but he was seriously beginning to see Abigail Young as a supreme nuisance.

  Helen pulled the curtains open on both windows and let light stream into the bedroom. Elizabeth stirred.

  "Elizabeth dear, Pastor Poole is here to see you." She caressed her daughter's fevered brow. "Minister, I will be downstairs if you need me. I will leave you two alone for now."

  Elizabeth was tired even though she had slept all night long. The sun had already been up for a while as it was about the middle of the morning. Sitting before her was an anxious-looking Pastor Poole. Elizabeth's body ached, and she shivered. She pulled the coverlet up under her chin and smiled as best she could. The pastor placed her hand in his, which felt clammy to her.

  "Mistress Elizabeth. I am so sorry you are ill. It is good your mother is here to care for you."

  "Yes, minister, I am so very grateful for her," Elizabeth rasped. Her throat felt dry. She signaled the pastor to hand her the glass of water on her nightstand. He obliged, and she took a deep drink.

  "Are you troubled, Mistress Elizabeth?"

  "Pastor, you are a minister, are you not? You're not a Catholic priest, I mean." Elizabeth looked uncertain.

  "No, I am not a Catholic priest. Why do you ask?"

  "A priest could hear my confession. A confession that is given in confidence."

  Pastor Poole nodded his head sagely. "Anything you desire to unburden yourself with, I will keep in the greatest confidence. I do not carry tales between my parishioners, Mrs. Merkova. The only thing I cannot do is give you absolution. But I can pray for you, if that would help."

  Elizabeth allowed herself to sob as tears began to slide down her face. "It's just that I dare not speak of the thoughts I have been having with anyone. People will think me mad."

  "I will not share your secrets, not even with your mother. I promise."

  Elizabeth's eyes grew round, and she gripped the pastor's hand. "What I have to tell you will sound strange. It is strange even to myself. But I know what I saw. They were here. They came, and they took my child."

  "Who took your child? Who, Elizabeth?"

  "They did. I do not know who they were. They had the look of the other world about them. I think they were faery. And I believe they have left a changeling in place of one of my children!"

  "Which child do you believe was taken?" Pastor Poole was now more than troubled and wanted to humor Mrs. Merkova. He tried very hard to maintain his composure and to be sincere.

  "Euphemia, my darling Effie. They took Effie. Ophelia is fine, but when I look at Effie, I know that isn't her. Pastor, you must believe me. No one believes me, but when I look at that... thing... I know that is not my daughter."

  "Mrs. Merkova, this is rather fantastical. You shouldn't say such things. I am sure if one of your children were missing an alarm would have been raised. You must be imagining this."

  "No one else can tell. I'm the only one. I saw them take Effie. I saw them place a changeling in her crib. And I am the only one who can see that is not my daughter."

  "I don't know what to say, Mrs. Merkova. This is tragic indeed. I will pray for you. That is what I will do. I will pray fervently for you and your children."

  Elizabeth stopped talking after that. She knew the pastor did not believe her any more than anyone else did. So now, the pastor thought she was crazy as well. Elizabeth had never felt more alone in her life. She didn't know what she was going to do, but she knew that somehow she needed to get her baby back. No one was going to go looking for a child they did not believe to be missing.

  "I apologize, Pastor Poole. I think it might be my fever. I told you, sometimes I have these strange ideas that come into my mind."

  "No need to apologize, my dear. This is not the first time I have heard someone say something odd during their illness. The body does affect the mind. When your illness is over, you will see things differently, and you will realize the mind plays tricks on us."

  "Yes. Yes, I'm sure that is what is wrong with me." Elizabeth was grateful for the out and did her best to look tired and worn out. "I'm sorry, pastor, but I'm so tired. I'm afraid I need my rest now."

  Pastor Poole said his farewells and left an exhausted Mrs. Merkova to re
st. He bid farewell to Helen Barker and alighted his carriage, glad to be free of Mrs. Merkova's company. Such ravings. She was clearly fever brained. He could only hope that when she was well again, she would return to her senses. He would pray for her most definitely, pray that she be returned to her right mind.

  Oonagh sat by Callidora's crib and cooed at the baby. The Queen opened her palm revealing a multifaceted crystal. She blew on the crystalline structure and watched it become cloudy. Then she filled it with faery light and left it suspended in the air above the crib, slowly rotating and showing off its prismatic colors. The baby cooed and giggled and pumped her arms in excitement.

  "My little Callidora. Sweet, sweet baby." The queen practically sang while talking to the baby. She hadn't expected it, but Oonagh was finding herself growing attached. She knew what lay ahead and that she needed to keep her distance. If Oonagh had felt any twinge of guilt over separating the child from its mother, it had long disappeared. Nothing was going to stand in her way now. The prophecy was too important. Settling the conflict between the warring factions of her people was also important.

  Long had there been tensions between the fae who wanted to work with the humans and find some way to live with them, and the fae that wished to eradicate them. If they knew that Oonagh was harboring a human child, there would be severe repercussions. She was taking a risk from which she may not recover. But the prophecy was a way out of these issues, a way towards keeping the peace.

  Oonagh sighed. She opened her palm, and from her fingertips grew a primrose in the most unusual shade of deep red, for red was a color of protection. Lowering her hand to the baby's face, she let the soft petals graze the child's rosy cheeks and eyes. "And with this primrose, I grant thee invisibility as your first power." Oonagh passed the primrose over the baby's body from head to foot. She held the primrose in her hands and rubbed it back and forth until it became fine powdery dust. Oonagh then carefully sprinkled the primrose dust over the baby and ruffled her small shock of fine hair.

  She looked at the small child and reached out a finger which the baby grasped with her tiny hands. "I will teach you the reality of nature, my little one. As Emissary, you will have an appreciation of nature as no human ever has. True, you won't be able to do the things fae can do, but I will be able to teach you how to use your senses. I hope it will be enough. The fate of us all rests with you. Such a huge burden for one so small."

  “Uh, hum.” Oonagh heard her servant clearing his voice. Standing in the doorway was Oswald, a male elf, and servant to the Queen. His most prominent feature was his very large hooked nose. Tall and gangly, he always wore old-fashioned clothes that were overly large for his too-thin frame. He gave the appearance of an overdressed spoon. “Pardon me, Your Highness, but I have urgent news, which I thought needed your attention.”

  Oonagh was irritated over the interruption, but tried not to show it. “Yes, Oswald, come in.”

  “With pleasure, my queen.” Oswald’s mincing disposition was part of his personality, and yet she kept him around because he was a horrible gossip and, therefore, very useful. He moved himself to the center of the room and stood ready to obey the queen’s command.

  “What news, Oswald?” the queen asked as she turned to give Oswald her full attention.

  “Your Most High, upon my rounds, it has come to my attention that certain petitioners of intelligence would like to know what the queen is keeping in her chambers.”

  “And?” Oonagh was growing more irritated.

  “I heard a name floated about in acquaintance with those petitioners that I thought you should be cognizant of. One Rhys Bryhana.”

  “Oh?” Now Oonagh was having trouble remaining aloof and uninterested. That name sent a chill up her spine. She had made a very serious mistake a long time ago. The word was, Rhys Bryhana had never forgiven her for the death of his family.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. He has been underground for some time, has he not? But now there are whispers, innuendo really, that he has something to do with the increasing discontent among the court. True, he has not been seen, and it may all be just rumor, you know how these things develop.”

  Oonagh frowned. This was not good news, although she couldn’t say it was entirely unexpected. “Oswald, I need you to be my eyes and ears on this. You are right, it could just be a rumor, or it could be something much more serious. We need more information.”

  Oswald was pleased he had once again proven himself useful to the queen. He felt that it was very important that she remember that. He wanted to ensure his place as all the political intrigue evolved. “Also, my queen, as your adviser, I feel caution may be required to keep from upsetting the different cabal in our court. Some of what I am hearing could be solved by throwing a bone here and there to keep certain officials appeased.”

  “And what do you suggest?” Oonagh could not keep the sarcasm out of her voice this time. “I am their queen, and if they plot against me, it is treason and you wish me to reward them?”

  “More like securing they remain in your debt. I believe this may be your best immunity.” With this, Oswald bowed low, trying to appease his queen’s growing ire. He knew this subject piqued her ego, but politics was never easy or smooth.

  “Very well. Let us discuss what we need to do to keep the different factions under our control.” And with that, the queen turned her attention to figuring out what machinations could keep the unrest from rising.

  13

  Erna Cook could not stand Abigail Young. Unfortunately, she had run into the woman on her shopping trip into town. She was on her way to the druggist to buy some cough syrup for her son when around the corner came that awful woman. Erna was not one for confrontation, even though she would dearly love to tell a few people in town precisely what she thought of them, and one of those people was Abigail. She desperately looked around for an out when she spied the bakery. Erna was an excellent baker in her own right and would never dream of wasting money on something she could do herself. But on this occasion, Erna was willing to make an exception. Besides, she didn't have to buy anything.

  Slipping in through the door, Erna made a bee-line for the back of the shop. She would wait until Abigail had made her own way down the street, and then Erna could emerge and go on about her business. She turned around and poked her head above a rack of hot cross buns and then quickly lowered her head as she saw Abigail out the window. Erna had no idea she was being observed, but it became obvious when Mr. Wiggins cleared his throat.

  "Oh, Mr. Wiggins, you startled me!" Erna blushed, placing a hand to her throat.

  "Hiding in the buns, are we?" Mr. Wiggins peered at Erna over the spectacles on the end of his nose.

  "Ssshhhh, you'll give me away." Erna looked scandalized at how loud Mr. Wiggins was being.

  "Erna, why don't you tell that old bat off? I know you're not in here to buy anything." Baxter Wiggins waved Erna off as if she were a bird that needed to take flight.

  "Mr. Wiggins, please. I just wanted to hide out here until she passes," Erna whispered as she held a finger up to her lips.

  "Yoooo, whooooo! Mr. Wiggins?" Abigail called out as the bell on the door tinkled, announcing her arrival.

  "Too late." Mr. Wiggins grimaced as he walked to the front of the store. "What can I do for you today, Abigail?"

  As Mr. Wiggins took Abigail's order, Erna tiptoed to the front of the store. Just as she reached the door, she heard the screeching voice of Abigail Young directed at her. "Erna? Erna Cook. How lovely to see you."

  Now Erna was going to be trapped, and she needed to get home to make lunch. "Hello, Abigail. Beautiful day isn't it?" Erna made to go out the door when Abigail approached her and laid her hand upon Erna's arm.

  "Have you heard about the Newell's? Well, I just about died." Erna started to space out as she stared out the front door, and Abigail's voice took on a droning sound like the buzzing of insects in the background. With so many children to raise, Erna was an expert on blocking out noise. Just a
s she thought she heard Abigail stop for an intake of breath, her eyes picked up on movement out on the street, and they regained their focus.

  It was the pastor in his carriage. Everyone knew how Abigail doted on the pastor, and Erna saw her escape. "Why look, it's Pastor Poole. I wonder what he is up to this fine morning?"

  "Pastor Poole?" Abigail's head immediately swiveled to the door. "Why yes, that is our dear pastor." She pushed Erna out of the way and huffed and heaved her girth through the door with remarkable speed. "Oh, Pastor Poooolllle!" Abigail chortled as she stepped out onto the porch.

  "Erna, you're wicked. Smart, but wicked." The baker grinned from ear to ear.

  "Good day to you, Mr. Wiggins." Erna returned a bright smile as she sashayed out the door.

  Outside, the good pastor looked somewhat flustered as he tried to move past Mrs. Young. "I really must see the doctor, Mrs. Young, if you don't mind."

  "Oh? What's wrong? Are you ill, Pastor Poole? I could bring you some chicken soup later on. It will fix you right up." Abigail beamed.

  "That won't be necessary, Mrs. Young, but thank you." Pastor Poole made his escape down the sidewalk and into the doctor's office in the blink of an eye.

  "Well, I never. I wonder what that is all about?" Abigail mused aloud.

  Erna knew better than to linger, or she may become stuck again. But Abigail had lost all interest in Mrs. Cook as she followed in the pastor's footsteps and poised herself outside the doctor's front stoop. Unbelievable. The woman didn't even try to hide that she was eavesdropping.