by TJ Green
“Woah!” Reuben said, recoiling. “I can smell that odd scent already!”
The box was made from sturdy, thick cardboard, and it was obviously old and stained with what looked like watermarks. Bits of old labels were stuck on the outside, peeling in places, and the print faded.
“I know,” Alex nodded as he gingerly examined the labels. “It’s odd. The smell seems to come and go. These old stickers don’t really tell us anything. There’s a post office stamp, but I can’t make out from where, and the address label has been completely ripped off. Only a corner remains.” He lifted the flaps and looked inside. “It’s lined with old newspapers.” He lifted out the layers and placed them out for everyone to see.
“Any dates?” Newton asked, reaching for one.
“1934,” Reuben said, as he unfolded a page and passed a few more around. “The Daily Herald.”
Briar picked another up, feeling a tingle run through her fingers as she carefully opened up a sheet. “This is from the Daily Mail, same year.”
El looked excited. “Wow! So the costumes were packed up in this, all those years ago. Amazing.”
“None of the articles tell us anything, though,” Newton said, disappointingly scanning the pages. “They’re all so random.”
Avery nodded. “No, they don’t, and they don’t indicate the true age of the costumes, either.”
Alex shrugged and sighed. “I thought it was a long shot. I’ll have to hope my vision state gives me something later.”
“But,” Briar said thoughtfully, “what if the year means something? What if it’s the last time these costumes were used?” She looked up to find the others staring at her. “What if they caused havoc then? Maybe in some little village or town?”
Avery nodded. “And someone packed them up and put them away. They might have been picked up from a house clearance years later.”
As Briar brushed the old paper with her fingertips, an idea started to form. “I’m going to search online, just to see if I find something. It probably won’t help us now, but,” she shrugged, “I’m curious.”
Newton smiled. “You never know. I’ll help you. There’s little else I can do right now.”
“I’ll keep researching spells,” Avery said. “There’s still plenty more I can check. In the meantime, is there anything we can do to protect the town from the jesters’ influence?”
“Other than another spell, which could be dangerous?” El asked. “Or asking Stan to stop? Probably not.”
“Actually,” Reuben said thoughtfully, “talking to Stan might be a good idea. He’s usually fair. He might be willing to suspend it.” He laughed. “I’m not entirely sure what I’ll say, but I can try.”
“We all should talk to him.” Alex put the box to the side of the table. “So that leaves me trying to have another vision that this thing triggered. I’ll wait until you’ve gone.”
“Are you sure you don’t need our help?” Briar asked him. They’d supplemented his magic with their own before.
“No. I think this will be best tackled alone. But thanks.”
“Well in that case,” Briar said, gathering a couple of the old newspaper sheets and placing them in her bag, “I’ll borrow these for reference and see what I can find, and I’ll leave you to it.” She stood and pulled on her jacket. “Do you want to help now?” she asked Newton.
“Of course,” he said jumping to his feet as if she might change her mind.
“I think that’s our cue too, Reuben,” El said, gathering her own bag and jacket. “Let’s have a stroll through town and make sure White Haven seems okay before bed. Good luck, Alex…and be careful!”
Nine
As soon as he and Avery were alone, Alex settled himself on the rug in front of the fire, his favourite space for vision-questing.
The fire was burning merrily, keeping the chill night at bay, and the attic felt snug and safe. The cats, Circe and Medea, made room for him, purring loudly and nuzzling his legs and hands. He absently fussed their silky heads as he settled next to them, thinking it was strange that they were unaffected by Helena’s presence.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take the fabric to the garden shed?” Avery asked him as he made his preparations.
He smiled at her, noting the concern in her eyes. He knew she worried about him doing this kind of work. “No. I think its magic will help, especially combined with the box.” He tapped it where it sat next to him on the rug, Medea in the process of climbing into it.
Avery sat next to him on a large floor cushion, the firelight making her pale skin glow with a golden light. “Let’s hope Helena won’t interfere.”
Alex glanced behind him to where she was still sitting on the sofa, absorbed in reading. “If anything, her presence might help.” Helena looked at him as if she’d heard him, and an enigmatic smile crossed her face. “I think she knows it, too.”
Avery squeezed his hand. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
“I’ll be fine. When I had the vision last night, it was swift, unbidden, and I can feel it tugging at me now.” It felt like a tide trying to pull him out to sea, and he’d sensed it all day, even at the pub. It was like once he’d made a connection, it wouldn’t break. “When my mind is quiet, it will happen quickly, I’m sure.”
“What if you can’t get back?” she asked. It was always Avery’s biggest fear.
“I guess at that point, take the box and the fabric to the shed.” He winked, trying to reassure her. “But I’ll be fine.” He considered the strength of the fleeting vision he’d had and the mystery it had elicited. “I’m actually looking forward to seeing it again and trying to make it last longer. This is different to what I‘ve done before. I’m not crossing to the spirit world or trying to communicate with one. I’ll just be an onlooker.”
She nodded and smiled. “True. It sounds fascinating. I can’t wait to hear what you see.”
“Don’t be freaked out if I’m gone a while. Just do me a favour and sort me a restorative tea for when I wake.”
She nodded and rose gracefully to her feet. “Of course. And I’ll research spells while you work.” She turned off all the lights from the sitting room half of the room, leaving only the candle and lamps lit around the table. “Safe travels.”
While Avery settled herself at the other end of the room, Alex faced the fire and sat cross-legged, his hands resting on the box that he placed in his lap, Medea still in it, curled up tight. Sometimes he used a candle’s flame to help step to his vision state, but tonight the fire would do just as well. He was tired too, and as he watched the flames dance his eyes drooped and his head dropped. Already the attic sounds were muted, and the purr of Medea further relaxed him. He took a deep breath in and out, and within seconds the room had vanished and he was somewhere else.
Alex was in a richly furnished room, lit only by candlelight and a fire. The room was square with windows on two sides, as if he was in a tower or a corner room, and the walls were made of huge blocks of stone fitted together tightly. One wall was hung with a rich tapestry, the colours bright and varied, but in the dim light it was difficult to make out the scene. Besides, Alex was too distracted by the rest of the space. It was a laboratory of sorts, or a spell room, and two long tables made of thick, heavy oak and scarred from years of use took up a large portion of the room. They were covered in papers and leatherbound books, animal and bird skulls, feathers and furs, and old jars of various shapes and sizes filled with herbs and liquids. Rain lashed against the windows, streaming down and blurring the outside world.
Presiding over everything was an old man with long white hair and a white beard, wearing a shirt half-tucked into breeches, the sleeves rolled up. He shuffled up and down the tables, muttering under his breath, and occasionally referring to an open book. For a brief second the man swung around and stared into the dark corner where Alex was, but then he turned away again, and Alex wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved not to be seen.
A doo
r opened and a young boy who looked to be in his mid-teens staggered in carrying a huge bundle of cloth, and with a shock Alex recognised the patterns of the jesters’ costumes. Unsure of whether he could move, he tentatively edged forwards, and found he could glide across the floor so that he was closer to the two of them.
“Here you are, sir,” the young boy said deferentially, and looking slightly nervous. “I took it from the seamstresses before they started cutting.”
“Did anyone see you?” the old man asked with both suspicion and worry. His sharp, pale blue eyes were lively despite his age, and even in this vision state Alex sensed his power.
“No! That part of the castle is deserted at this time of night. They won’t start until morning.”
“Well done, Pierre,” the old man muttered, glancing down at his papers again. “Place them over there.” He directed the boy to the end of the table, close to the fire.
Pierre did as requested, quickly returning to the old man’s side. “What now?”
“Stoke the fire and take those ingredients. When the water is boiling, call me.”
Alex stood closer to the old man, trying to see the page that the spell book was open to—because Alex was convinced it was a spell. This was where the original spell had been cast. The magic the clothes contained—and the box itself—was strong enough to summon him here, and Alex had never been so grateful to have spirit as his strength.
This was fascinating. He studied the old man. For all he knew, he could be standing next to Merlin himself. But then he shook his head. The clothes were too modern for the dark ages, or to be medieval. Perhaps early Tudor? Was he the king’s official magician? And the young boy, he surmised, must be some kind of assistant, or apprentice.
As the man who must be a magician or witch turned away, Alex was free to study the page, but it was written in a language he didn’t understand. The words were tiny, tightly packed on the page, much like some of the spells in his own grimoire, and he could discern only odd words. If he had time, he would be able to translate them, but it was impossible now. He frowned over the page, trying to memorise phrases, but then Pierre’s voice broke his concentration.
“It’s ready, sir! It’s boiling.”
The old man hurried to his side, and Alex joined them. They had gathered around a large iron pot—a cauldron—suspended on a chain over the fire in the cavernous fireplace. Herbs were grouped to the side, as were tiny bird skulls, feathers, and another couple of objects Alex couldn’t discern. One by one the old man dropped them in, timing them under his breath.
Frustrated, Alex realised there was no way he would know what herbs were being used, but perhaps how the spell was being cast would give him a clue. The water frothed with the addition of the ingredients, and when the old man uttered a phrase, it changed colour to a vivid green.
“Get the cloth,” he instructed the boy.
In moments the boy was back, and he slid the bolts of cloth onto a rack embedded into the fireplace above the cauldron and spread them out to catch the fumes.
Alex shook his head as he watched. Ingenious. They were infusing the cloth with the spell.
The old man pulled up a stool and sat next to his apprentice, who asked, “How long, sir?”
“All night. Until just before dawn. The spell must bond with the cloth. First with steam, then with smoke. Washing will not weaken it, nor will time.”
“Will it work?” The boy’s voice was urgent. Frightened. “The king will know if it doesn’t.”
“Of course, it will work! Do you doubt me, Pierre?”
He dropped his eyes to the floor. “No. I’m just worried. The king was very angry.”
“It will pass, as it always does. Besides, his anger is born from fear. He knows not who to trust, or who to turn to. The queen’s treachery has run deep. And he needs his spell caster, and I need you. We will be safe.”
“And the queen?”
“Will know nothing until it is too late. She requested the jesters for the court, after all.” He smiled mischievously at the boy, stripping away his age. “We are merely using her own wishes against her. Her lies will be revealed, as will her associates, and the king will see to it that the perpetrators will disappear…if we do this right.”
The boy’s eyes were wide with fear and his voice was barely above a whisper when he asked, “But how to get rid of the queen?”
“The king has his ways.”
The boy was trembling now. “The court is not as it was.”
“No, even in this small kingdom, secrets will kill.” The man softened and he patted the boy’s hand. “And that is why this must work, or we will find ourselves cast out if the queen wins, and not even my magic can stop that.”
The old man gazed back into the fire and stirred the pot, the scent once more wafting over the room and making Alex feel powerful with knowledge. It was odd how so immersed he felt in this place, and how he could experience certain sensations. The spell was clever indeed. Just as he wanted to settle himself next to the fire and listen further, his vision swam, and with a headlong rush into darkness, he awoke in his body, staring at his own fire, with Medea scratching at his chest.
He felt euphoric, drunk almost on success, and he turned triumphantly to Avery, seeing her lost in her books at the table. “Hey, Ave.”
She looked up, startled. “You’re back.”
“Yeah, I’m back, and wow, what a vision! I know what happened. Now we just need to work out how to deal with it.”
Reuben and El were almost at the town square when they heard shouts ahead of them, the sound of running, and then a whoop of laughter as someone yelled, “Get him to the stocks!”
“Shit,” Reuben muttered to El as he broke into a run. “That sounds worrying.”
Only minutes earlier they had split from Briar and Newton, who took a road to the middle of town, and he and El headed to the harbour. Now he wished he had Newton with him. He didn’t want El dragged into a fight.
Not that it seemed an issue for her. She was already racing next to him. As they turned a corner onto the main street, they saw a group of men dragging another man to the town square, others watching them and applauding.
“You gonna lock him in then?” a young man called out.
“Of course,” an older man said from the main group, yelling over his shoulder. “He’ll get the full treatment!”
The man they were dragging was struggling ineffectually. “Come on guys, let me go!” he appealed to his captors. “This is stupid!”
But no one addressed him, and Reuben slowed, his hand on El’s arm. “Let’s wait before we go steaming in.”
“Are you trying to protect me?” she hissed, outraged, as they followed at a distance.
“El, our magic could be revealed. We have to be careful. We don’t know what’s going on here, other than that they’re dragging him to the bloody stocks.”
“But that’s terrible.”
“They’re not beating him to a pulp,” he pointed out. “Let’s try reasoning with them. I recognise a couple of faces—they’re all locals. That’s Tom Davies and Johnny Payne. They all drink together. They’ve been friends for years.”
The men reached the open stocks. The big chain that had locked it was in a heap on the ground, a huge bolt cutter next to it. They’d come prepared.
There was another scuffle as the man lashed out as he was wrestled into place, but there were too many men overpowering him. In seconds he was secured, allowing Reuben to get a good look at him. It was Bernie Campbell, a stocky man who was normally full of good-natured bluster, but his self-assurance had gone as he stared at his captors.
“Please, guys! Let me go. It’s freezing, and I’m your mate!”
“Mates don’t cheat each other out of their hard-earned cash,” Tom Davies said.
“I don’t cheat! Bernie persisted.
“You’ve been skimming the bets for a while now,” a skinny man with red hair sneered. “We’re not happy, Bernie,” he said
, lowering his face so it was inches from Bernie’s own. “Not happy at all!”
Bernie’s eyes widened with shock, and then his usual bluster returned. “No! There’s been a mistake—”
Johnny cut him off, his voice calm and deliberate. “There’s no mistake. You’ve cheated us for years, and we trusted you. But not anymore. It’s time for you to think on your mistakes, and you’ll have all night to do it. But before then,” he grinned and looked at his companions, “it’s time for some fun.”
The other men had dragged the rubbish bin in front of the stocks, and within seconds they were pelting the rotten vegetables at Bernie. Their shouts drew attention. It wasn’t late, and other townsfolk gathered around, mostly after leaving the pubs and restaurant to walk home. Many were curious, others looked worried, but most were amused, a few lining up to participate as Bernie’s shouts and howls became louder.
“This is getting out of hand,” El said, still watching the crowd from their position at the edge of the square. “We should do something.”
“What?” Reuben asked, perplexed. “I’m not saying this is good—despite the fact they think Bernie’s a cheat, a fact that doesn’t surprise me either, if I’m honest—but it’s just veg.” He flashed her a smile. “I can attest to the fact that it doesn’t hurt. It’s just disgusting.”
Poor Bernie was now covered in rotten food, and the crowd was openly laughing at him. A few looked uncomfortable with it, some starting to remonstrate with the main group, while others were drifting away.
However, a shout went up from the group by the bin. “We’re out of food! We need something else!”
Johnny took charge. “That’s it, folks. Time to go home!”
“It’s too early for that!” another man said, looking cocky with his friends lined up next to him. “Why don’t we strip him!”
