Unquiet Dreams

by Mark Del Franco

He chuckled. “True. I was just checking to make sure you were still on the case. I do have to justify your consultant fee, you know.”

  “Stickler. Swing by Thomas Park in an hour or so and pick me up.”

  “Will do.” He disconnected.

  I dropped my head against the seat, wondering if I had a security agent following in the air. Nigel had made no secret of the Bosnemeton meeting in front of Keeva, so I didn’t quite see the point. Every member of the Grove in the city who could be there would be there. Gerin liked nothing more than to strut his stuff in a crisis, so this meeting would be the usual boring posturing. I would have skipped it if Nigel hadn’t taunted me. It felt a lot like reverse psychology, but I wasn’t going to give him a point to score later by not showing up.

  I had trusted Nigel with my life, and now I felt that trust misplaced. Was I really just a soldier to him? A pawn in his political games? Wasn’t I more than that to him? I thought he cared. To think otherwise would be a blow. Not to my ego. My ego was still tougher than it should be. It hurt, though. And confirmed for me all the more to work the cases Murdock called me for. I had a pretty good idea now what it was like to be dismissed because of powerlessness. If I could ease that pain for someone else, like some poor kid who died in the Weird, maybe it would ease my own a bit. I thought a lot of people cared about me until my accident. Some did, including the little guy in front of me who was trying to fit the door lock in his mouth.

  “Stop that. It’s got germs all over it,” I said to Stinkwort.

  He made a sour face. “And you have no idea how it tastes.”

  14

  The cab let me off near a side entrance to Thomas Park in Southie. I stood on the sidewalk pulling the robe over my head. I wasn’t alone. Only the more conservative druids like to walk around in their robes, so almost every meeting of the Grove seems to begin with a dressing room on the sidewalk. I walked up the steps into the park with Joe by my side.

  The Bosnemeton grows on one end of the park on a hill overlooking Boston and the harbor. During the American Revolution, the Continental Army fortified the hill and scared the British all the way to Canada. While a nice New Englandy tower went up to commemorate the event, no one realized at the time that druids had planted oak trees at the other end of the new park. Before anyone knew it, a sacred grove was born, and the first fey/human court battle began. Eventually the whole church and state tussle went away and an uneasy truce was called. So now the druids can hold meetings of the Grove as long as they don’t annoy the neighbors, and the neighbors don’t go into the Grove.

  You never approach a druid Grove directly, but trail along a winding path. Once you start on the path, you must enter the Grove before turning back to the world. I started on the way, nodding to the warders who always took a post outside to keep tourists away.

  My sensing abilities kicked in on their own as I neared the entrance. That happens sometimes. All the ambient druid essence in the air, not to mention the Grove itself, can enhance abilities. On the final approach, I could see a thin layer of an airbe druad. It’s an essence barrier—literally a “druid hedge”—much like a body shield, only created by spells. Druids are particularly adept at making them. The skill used to come in handy during battles to protect fighters. The one on the Grove was mostly for privacy, and held a warding that prevented non-druids from entering. As I passed through it, Joe hovered outside, his eyes roving over the haze for a break in the spell. He never finds one, but he always tries.

  Majestic white oaks encircle a single tree in the center of the Grove, a few curled leaves clinging to their stark limbs. The meeting had already begun. Gerin Cuthbern stood beneath the central tree wearing his long white robe and the double torc around his neck that symbolized his rank as High Druid. Senior druids who act as Elders of the Grove stood next to him including Nigel and Gillen Yor. Gillen makes me smile. He’s a short, cantankerous sort, who looks like he dresses in whatever oddments might have been handy when he rolled out of bed. At meetings, his robe always looks like he gave up putting it on halfway through.

  If I ever needed a reminder of how far I had fallen, the Bosnemeton provides a nice geographical representation. Ranked in a semicircle in front of the Elders were the members of the Grove, the more experienced druids in front, fanning out and back to those with the least control of their abilities in the rear. I took my place near the rear, with mostly teenagers behind me. Not far in front of me, Callin stood, eyes bloodshot and a bruise on his cheek. When he noticed me, he nodded, then turned his attention back to the front.

  Gerin is a stickler for form. Which means I spend a lot of time going over my grocery list in my head while he warbles his way through the invocations. Nigel always looks patient, Gillen considerably less so. I’ve learned to catch naps on my feet, which has the added benefit of looking like I’m meditating. After an interminable time, Gerin called out “Awen, the spirit is here!”

  On the stone table in front of Gerin lay his copper blade of office. On the other side of the tree, druidesses stood, their cup sitting on its own table in front of them. The women’s white robes accentuated a pallor on all their faces. They didn’t look happy, but they rarely did when only the High Druid led a meeting. Gerin liked to put up a thin barrier between the two sides of the Grove. He says it symbolizes the halves we each bring to the whole. The women think he’s a chauvinist pig.

  “My brothers and sisters, tonight we speak of the rule of law,” Gerin intoned.

  Someone snorted loudly behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. Most everyone had their hoods thrown back. The only people who pulled their hoods forward were either embarrassed by their position in the Grove or wished to remain solitary for the meeting. Or cold. After the warm season, Gerin usually charged the Grove’s warding with heat, but tonight he hadn’t bothered. Between the robe and my jacket, I was warm anyway. I finally decided the snorter was a short guy near the entrance with his hood pulled all the way down. Like all situations that lend themselves to pecking order, those in the back got away with commenting and laughing at the proceedings without fear of Gerin’s anger.

  “Will you get on with this,” Gillen muttered loudly enough to hear.

  “My brother, I am the voice of the Grove. Do you challenge it?” said Gerin

  Gillen made a disgusted face. “Let’s keep it moving. I’ve got work to do.”

  Gerin didn’t react to him, but faced the crowd, or rather the men. He kept his back to the women. “My brothers and sisters, we are under siege. I have been attacked in my own city.” He waited while those few who hadn’t heard what happened could be properly aghast, as though someone’s attacking a druid never happened. It was rare for the High Druid to be attacked, but hardly shocking. “It pains me, brothers and sisters, that the respect for this Grove has fallen so low.”

  He began to ramble in his arch manner. Sometimes I think he’s read too many ritual guides. I know he’s written too many. While I let my mind drift, a swift pain in my head brought back my attention. It was just a spasm, but it felt like my brain had cramped.

  Gerin held his staff across his body as he talked. Most druids no longer used them. They’re big and bulky and have an aggravating tendency to get forgotten under restaurant tables. But then that’s Gerin.

  “And so I propose an opposition to the Guild for their failure to protect.”

  “What an odd thing to say, Gerin,” Nigel said in a dry tone.

  “I am High Druid of the Bosnemeton Circle, Brother Martin, in case you have forgotten how to address me.”

  Nigel placed his hand over his heart and gave a shallow bow from the waist. “My pardon, High Druid. But the fact remains, you are more representative of the Guild than anyone here.”

  “Save you, Brother Martin.”

  “Save me,” Nigel said.

  “And you have failed this Grove, Brother Martin. When the opportunity arose to bring strength to the ruling council of the Guildhouse, you passed it by. I would not stand here with burns if y
ou had stood by me when we had the chance.” From my angle, I couldn’t see any burns. I wasn’t going to be the one to ask him to lift his robe.

  “Oh, please, Gerin—High Druid—it’s not a ruling council. It’s a board of directors. I’m not interested in Guild politics,” Gillen snapped.

  Surprisingly, an annoyed murmur ran through the crowd. Granted, Gillen did not have many admirers, but everyone usually respected him. Not that he cared either way.

  “That’s the point, Brother Yor. The Guild fails to rule where it must and fears to rule where it should. The Grove had an opportunity to change that, and we failed. You, Brother Martin, failed us, with the aid of Brother Grey.”

  There are times when I love being the center of attention. This was not one of them. Having several hundred men in ceremonial robes glance in your direction when you’re blamed for something is not pleasant.

  “Connor Grey merely sat in for Briallen, as you know. And if she were there, she would have pointed out the same flaw in your thinking as he did,” said Nigel.

  “Irrelevant,” said Gerin. “The point is our unity. The Ward Guildhouse crumbles under years of Danann rule. It is the withered body of a dying man.”

  Murmurs of agreement rumbled through the crowd. Gerin knows how to work a crowd. My head twinged at the shots of essence flowing around me as people conferred through sendings.

  Gerin was going into full chant mode, raising his staff, turning on the solemn voice. “It is the duty of a Grove—to guide the guideless, to teach the ignorant, to…”

  “To rule both Grove and Guild? Is that what you’re after, Gerin?” asked Gillen Yor.

  “Why not? Why not the Grove?” he said.

  “Gerin has led us well!” someone shouted. No doubt a plant. More murmurs went up from the gathering and more surges of essence. Using ability in the Grove was frowned on, but I doubted Gerin was going to complain tonight. The essence pulsed against my head, sharpening my senses painfully. I let my body shields come up, a fuzzy little barrier that brought some relief.

  “The Grove should run the Guild!” Gerin shouted. More shouts went up.

  “Emotion clouds your judgment, Brother Cuthbern,” Nigel said. Sweet little dig not using his full title, but not crossing the same line Gillen had. More boos than cheers.

  “I could have been killed. We must stop them,” Gerin said. Nice of him not to mention I almost got killed, too. People were getting caught up in the idea. Essence swirled around me in cascading waves. My senses were kicking into overdrive. I wanted to shout myself, but from the sharp knives of pain digging into my skull. I couldn’t understand it. I had been bombarded by essence before, and it had made the black thing in my head recede. I had actually been able to use my abilities for a short time. But this was different. The thing in my head seemed to clamp down harder. Maybe it was because the source was druidic, too similar to my own. Whatever didn’t allow me to tap essence, didn’t like other druidic essence either. I decided Gerin’s blustering wasn’t worth the pain.

  I pushed my way through the ring of men behind me, who were surging forward. They were all shouting Gerin’s name. I wasn’t the only one leaving. Just as I reached the entrance, Gillen Yor pushed past a knot of people and stomped through the druid hedge, grumbling under his breath. I stepped through the barrier and breathed a sigh of relief. The pressure abated immediately. Whatever games Gerin was playing, he played them inside the Bosnemeton.

  I pulled my robe over my head as I walked down the stairs.

  Joe popped in right in front of me. “What the hell is going on in there?”

  “Gerin’s on one of his power trips again.” I rolled the robe up and tucked it under my arm.

  Joe glanced back up the stairs. “He needs to relax more. Did you invite him to the club?”

  I laughed. “Not likely. Have you seen Murdock?”

  Joe cocked his head. He was doing whatever it is he does when he looks for someone before teleporting. “He should be here any minute.”

  I was about to comment that Murdock’s the only person who shows up late more often than I do, when I noticed a druid come stumbling down the stairs and stagger away. It was the little guy who had snorted loudly. He still had his hood up, but moved as if in pain. He put a hand out to steady himself against the stone wall surrounding the park. I went over to him.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. He nodded and waved me away. Then the shoes beneath the robe caught my eye. I’d know those Doc Martens anywhere.

  “How did you get on the men’s side of the Grove?”

  A hand went up to the hood and pulled it open slightly. Meryl glared at me. “Rat me out, and you die.”

  “Are you all right? You’re pale as a ghost.”

  She nodded again. “Yeah, it’s just my girl-nads. That time of the month’s coming sooner than usual.”

  “You can feel those?” I asked.

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “Oh, now I remember, you’re a man. Of course I can feel them, you idiot.” She took a few deep breaths. Her body shields shimmered around her, and she straightened up. “Ah, that’s better.”

  “How the hell did you get through the hedge?” I said.

  She grinned. “It wasn’t easy.”

  Joe fluttered up. “Tell me! Tell me!”

  “Sorry, Joe. Gerin would be annoyed if he knew I got in, never mind how angry he’d be if he caught me telling his secrets, even if I do think he’s an idiot.”

  Murdock chose that moment to pull his car around the park. I opened the passenger door. “Do you want a ride or did you bring your car?” I asked Meryl.

  She marched around the door and sat in the seat. She smiled. “I’m not taking my car into the Tangle.” She gestured toward the backseat. “You get the compost heap. Hi, Murdock.”

  He smiled. “Compost? Is it something I drove?”

  I opened the back and pushed some trash across the seat. It wasn’t that bad. I’d seen it worse. Joe found it interesting enough to rummage around in it.

  “Gerin turned the Bosnemeton into a boys’ club, and someone’s not happy,” I told Murdock.

  He looked at Meryl. “Don’t you ladies have your own island somewhere?”

  Meryl smirked. “Yeah, right. It’s where we run around in star-spangled swimsuits.”

  I think the biggest mistake I had made in my social life recently was introducing Meryl and Murdock. They took to each other like sarcasm and snark. At first I was their main target, but they finally moved on to the rest of the world.

  We wound our way through Southie while Meryl explained druid gender politics to Murdock. She made several good points. Convergence had not been kind to the old order. Gerin liked to cling to the notion that women didn’t want to be involved in politics. Of course, he tends to forget that not a few druidessess have had more influence in Faerie than he apparently ever did.

  We entered the Tangle. A blue haze crept along the streets, ghostly translucent in the dim streetlights. Small neon signs flickered here and there, subdued signposts for bars that didn’t want to draw attention but didn’t want to be overlooked either. No one moves quickly down here, especially at night, unless they’re running. The quick step is the fear step and draws the curiously malicious. No loud talking, and especially not laughter. It’s a place of hard coolness, the strut of confidence and threat.

  Meryl made Murdock park on an empty side street. Pulling up near the club would attract minimal attention, but more than we wanted.

  “Ditch the coat,” she said to Murdock. He looked down at the camel-hair, one of his favorites. He took it off, folding it neatly on the driver’s seat. Underneath it, he had worn black pants and a white button-down shirt. “Egads, Murdock, this is the Tangle, not Newbury Street.” She turned to me. “Give him your sweater.”

  I shrugged out of the turtleneck without debate, happy that I had decided to wear the black T-shirt. Murdock took off his shirt with a bemused smile and pulled the sweater on. He’s broader in the chest than I
am, so it fit snugly, very sixties British spy movie. Meryl opened her robe and threw it in the car. Murdock and I stared. I’m not sure if our jaws dropped, but they should’ve. Meryl wore her red Doc Martens with white ankle socks, a red and white midthigh skirt in candy-cane stripes, and a strapless top in redfreakin’-vinyl that molded her curves from cleavage to waist. She flipped her magenta bangs and smiled. “Let’s go, boys.”

  Murdock and I exchanged glances. “My dates never wear vinyl,” he said.

  “Not a date!” Meryl called back. We caught up with her at the corner and came out into one of Boston’s amusing intersections called squares. Eight streets converged into a tight formation, buildings wedging in like slices of cake. No one in their right mind would try and drive through it without praying to whatever gods they held dear. As it was, a half dozen cars clung to the curbs, burnt-out husks of metal that had been there long enough to rust. One of them had a parking boot clamped to its tire, whether in tribute to the traffic department’s efficiency or indifference was unknowable.

  A cluster of people waited on a sidewalk on the far side of the square, some in outfits that made Meryl’s look demure. And the women were even more scantily clad.

  “Don’t talk,” Meryl said as we stepped up to the club. No sign over the door, but down in the Tangle, if you didn’t know where you were going, you shouldn’t be there. Following Meryl, we skirted around the waiting queue.

  On one side of the entrance, a dwarf worked the line, while on the other, a tall, lanky fey surveyed the crowd. He was one of the solitary fairies who didn’t have any prominent clan affiliation. Not with his yellow-barked skin and damaged, spiny growths like hair on his head. No high fairy clan would ever claim him as their own. He might even be Unseelie, one of the unwanted who banded together to protect themselves from the pretty fey with the nasty essence bolts. He turned unsettlingly white eyes toward Meryl, and his face cracked open in what passed for a smile. “Long time no see, M. What brings you down to party town?”

  Meryl gave him a cool nod. “Hey, Zev. Just playing with some friends. Can you let us in?”