Jenna smiled. “I don’t really understand what you just did Miri, but thank you. Maybe you girls can ask Mrs. Bumsqueak if I can go back to my room? I’m not really sick, after all.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” said Mandy.
Mrs. Bumsqueak gave Jenna an herbal potion infused with ginger for her nausea, and allowed her to go back to her room. During the months that followed, Mandy and Jenna became friends, but Mandy still didn’t really understand why Jenna wanted to keep Alistair’s baby, and now that she was beginning to show, Mandy felt angry whenever she saw that small bump and remembered what it signified.
She was not the only one at P.A.W.S. troubled by the idea of this baby. The night when Jenna was returned to her room from the infirmary, Mrs. Bumsqueak visited Jessamyn in her chamber. Once before in the history of P.A.W.S., a young girl went into a labor with a werewolf child. Mrs. Bumsqueak was just a trainee healer at the time, but she watched while the young girl, who had been about the same age as Jenna, labored for 26 hours trying to give birth to the werewolf child that seemed to be tearing at her innards. Neither mother nor child had survived.
Mrs. Bumsqueak asked Jessamyn to try to convince Jenna to have an abortion, but Jessamyn would not. She’d gazed into her scrying bowl and, like Jenna, was convinced that this child was in some way important. This enraged Beatrice Bumsqueak. She liked Jenna and didn’t feel it was fair that she would have to go through so much pain and maybe even sacrifice her life. The healer left Jessamyn’s chamber angry and determined. She’d find a way to help Jenna.
Chapter 11
Jessamyn peered into her scrying bowl. It was hard looking into the future as the future flowed off into different directions. A tiny, unexpected flicker and a whole new world could be created . . . or destroyed. Yet she could see the golden-haired boy that Jenna had described, always laughing with that chestnut-haired girl. In many realities, they would still always be there, and Jessamyn was drawn to them, drawn to that future that she could only partially see.
She sighed and let the images flow and swirl back into nothingness. She got up, crossed the room, and walked over to one of the tall bookshelves that lined the walls of her chamber. A book caught her eye. It was old and worn, an alchemist’s book given to her many, many years before.
“Hello,” he said. “Sorry about your castle.”
Jessamyn ran back along the beach, hid behind a boulder, and peered out at the boy. He was cute, she decided, and his magic was definitely impressive. She had heard that some magicians could form themselves into animals of their choosing. How wonderful to transform into a bird and fly! But then she thought of her mother. Cleona would never approve of that use of magic.
Magic, according to Cleona, should be a selfless act used primarily to help others, not for escape or for personal pleasure. Jessamyn watched the magician walk along the shoreline; a small smile played on his features.
“Hello . . . Where are you?” he called out. “Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum! I smell the blood of an Irish lass!”
From her hiding spot, Jessamyn giggled.
“I hear you! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
The magician took from his pocket a small silver wand and pointed it at a tiny purple bloom that was just poking out from the ground. He silently mouthed a word and the bloom grew until it was about seven inches tall, with petals of violet and indigo. He then plucked the flower and walked purposefully toward the boulder where Jessamyn was hiding, and offered it to her.
“A peace offering, young maiden,” he said, “from Quentin the Quixotic.”
Jessamyn giggled again and peered out from behind the boulder. Slowly, she stepped out in front of him and reached for the flower. She fully expected it to be an illusion like her own magic, but the flower was solid and seemed to still be blooming in her hand, even now that it had been plucked. Jessamyn gazed at it in wonder and then back at Quentin, who bowed to her.
“How did you do that?” she whispered in awe.
“Magic, of course. You want me to teach you?”
“Of course. Will you?”
“Jessamyn!” Her mother’s voice echoed through the air. Cleona knew a spell so that she could call Jessamyn from anywhere on the island.
“Oh, I’d better go . . . Mammy will be angry if I don’t come quickly . . . ‘bye!”
“Farewell, young maiden, until we meet again . . .”
“Jessamyn . . .” Quentin sighed as he gazed into his scrying bowl. She had been just a child when he met her, a curious and capable child, but still a child. Over the years, she had matured into a beautiful and powerful woman. Today there were lines on her face, lines of experience and suffering.
He had flown away to Ireland, to this tiny isle off the Irish coast, in search of a spell, a spell that would break his connection with Alistair. He had lived for centuries in Vienna in Alistair’s pocket, a tool to be used whenever needed, and kept safe in the toolbox when not required. A comfortable toolbox for sure as Alistair provided him with all the luxuries he desired, even during the thin, war years, but a box nevertheless. In exchange, Alistair gave him blood, just enough to maintain his immortality, but not more.
But Alistair was becoming obsessive even for him. Immortality wasn’t enough, he craved power. He had envied Hitler his platform, but was unsurprised when he fell. In Vienna, Alistair was gathering his own army, a pack that was loyal to him and him alone. During the war years, he bargained with the Jews. “Give me your sons,” he would say. “I’ll keep them safe from the Nazis. Just a little gold in payment.”
And it worked. Alistair built a formidable pack. He changed the location of the den house many times and used Quentin’s spells to conceal it with wards, so that the Nazis stayed away. Alistair’s growing wealth was also concealed this way, but Alistair didn’t just want wealth. He wanted power and was envious of Quentin’s magic.
Alistair was adept at hypnotic magic. He could manage the minds of men with a look and a touch. But he could not perform the physical acts that came easily to Quentin. Of course, Quentin had had many centuries to perfect his skills and was originally taught by the greatest magician of all, Merlin.
Alistair, however, was convinced that Quentin’s powers came from the charm he wore around his neck, and in truth the bird charm was a powerful artifact, but while it aided Quentin’s transformations, it was not the true source of his magic.
Nevertheless, Alistair was determined to procure a charm of his own. He had heard rumors that two shapeshifters lived in Vienna and he charged Quentin to find them. After months of research, Quentin managed to locate one—a Jewish businessman, Morris Katz, whose wife had recently left him, and a teenage son, Max.
Alistair was jubilant. Surely they were slated for transport. It should be no problem for Alistair to gain the charm from Katz in exchange for his son’s safety. (And the son, from a magical family, could make a very interesting addition to his pack.)
But Herr Katz would not cooperate. He was gracious enough, offering Alistair a seat in his office and a glass of cherry brandy, but no, the charm and his son were not negotiable.
“You are a fool, Katz,” said Alistair. “The Nazis will take you both. With me, at least Max will be safe.”
“I’ll take my chances, sir. Guten tag, Herr Wolff.”
Alistair persisted though, and each time got the same answer from Katz. Then one day he was gone, taken on the transport with the rest of the Jews. There were very few Jews left in Vienna at this point. A handful, it was rumored, had gone into hiding. A very small sampling were protected by their connections and privileged position in Viennese society.
Alistair moved his pack from the city to deep in the Wienerwald. He had heard a rumor that there were shapeshifters out there too, hidden in the forest, helping the resistance. Alistair would help anyone who would get him what he wanted.
He still fretted about the charms. The idea that they might have fallen into the hands of the Nazis, might have been melted down for their silve
r, seemed to Alistair worse than all of the other atrocities of the Holocaust combined. After the war, he scanned the lists of the survivors for the name Katz. It was a popular name among Jews and there were plenty in those rolls. He even found a Morris and a Max, but they weren’t the right ones.
And all the time Quentin stayed close by, accepting the vials of blood, making his potion, extending his life. But increasingly he was getting more and more disgusted with himself. Alistair’s pack had now grown to eleven boys, ranging from the ages of twelve to seventeen.
Each month on the full moon, he would lead them in a hunt. Usually Quentin would stay far out of Alistair’s way on those nights, but one night he’d adopted the form of a wood pigeon and was flying home to his apartment in Vienna, when he spotted the group of wolves circling a body that was lying on the ground. He knew what was happening, so why did he stop to watch? Why did he fly down, and hide himself in a tree nearby?
Maybe he felt it was unfair for him to keep taking Alistair’s blood without witnessing the reality of Alistair’s life? Maybe he wanted to stop, like how a person, once a confirmed carnivore, might become a vegetarian after visiting a slaughterhouse.
The victim was a young girl, maybe eight or nine years old. She didn’t stand a chance. The pack tore at her body until there was barely a scrap of bone left. Then they ran off into the woods after their leader.
Quentin flew back to his home in Vienna. He changed back into human form, went into the bathroom, and vomited into the toilet. No, no, he must not do this anymore. He could not keep taking Alistair’s blood. He’d been young when he first started taking the potion. Surely if he was to stop he would still have many years of life left. Maybe in that time he would find another alchemist secret. Werewolf blood could not possibly be the only route to immortality. There had to be another way.
That night he took the form of a tawny owl and flew away from Vienna. He decided to return to England. He hadn’t been back to his homeland for centuries. After his teacher, Merlin, passed away, he’d become discouraged. Merlin was supposed to be the greatest magician known to man, and yet he had still died. Quentin felt abandoned by his teacher. It was this feeling of abandonment that led him to Transylvania and his first encounter with Alistair.
But now, centuries later, he returned to England. He flew over Europe, stopping to rest in treetops during the day and flying in owl form at night. The journey took him three nights, at the end of which he flopped exhausted into a disused nest in a tree in Cheshire. This was the area he grew up in so many centuries before. He wasn’t sure why he was drawn back here. Tomorrow he would explore, but for now he needed to sleep.
His sleep, however, was far from restful. The images of the wolves entered his head and would not leave. He saw Alistair among them, blood on his lips, laughing.
“Connected,” came the voice in his head. “You cannot leave me. We are connected for all eternity.”
In the dream, Quentin backed away. Suddenly he was falling, with Alistair’s face always leering directly above his. Bump . . . he woke up, startled. The sun was high in the sky and he was lying on the ground under the tree, now in his human form once more.
Instinctively he felt for the chain around his neck, the amulet. It was there, slightly warm, an old friend, part of Quentin. Part of his soul resided in that charm. This was not merely a figure of speech, but the truth. When Merlin forged the charm, he took a little of Quentin’s soul and infused it into the amulet. The amulet was his and could never be used by another, unless he died or willingly passed it on to someone else. If he ever were to do that, he would be handing them a piece of his soul, and likely wouldn’t survive long without it.
He shuddered and placed the charm underneath his shirt. He could not imagine passing it on and willingly ending his life, and in any case, who would he pass it on to? Despite all his centuries, he had never had more than fleeting relationships and, to his knowledge, had no children.
Quentin got up from the ground and dusted himself off. He was very hungry after his long flight, and decided to walk into a nearby village and find himself some breakfast.
Chapter 12
For the next two years, Quentin wandered the West Country. He visited the sites he’d traveled to with Merlin when he was a boy, in Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall. He searched for remnants of the old magic, but found only quaint tourist villages and modern shopping malls. He ranged into Wales, where the wild warlocks once dwelt, but found nothing. Even here, civilization had taken over. Still, the region was beautiful. If he was to finally let go of immortality, would it be so bad to live out his days here amongst these green mountains, still far calmer than the hubbub of modern Vienna.
Yet while his days were calm, his nights still held torment. Alistair and his wolves still echoed through his dreams. Sometimes they would chase him through the night until he would finally enter his home and bar the door, only to be confronted by his own image in the mirror—each night a little older, a little closer to mortality.
In the morning he would examine his face in the mirror, but see no discernible change. He’d taken Alistair’s potion for many years. Maybe he didn’t need it anymore?
One misty March morning, his wandering took him to a secluded mountaintop in Snowdonia. Quentin hiked around the base of Glyder Fawr, gazing up at the strange formation of rocks. He remembered coming here once with Merlin, on Yule, to perform a special mid-winter spell.
No need to waste energy with climbing. Quentin chose an eagle form and soared up to the summit of the mountain. From up here and with an eagle’s eyes he could see far into the distance in every direction. What was that?
There was someone out there. He could sense a strange aura. This was no normal hiker. The man was very old and was walking slowly, maybe a mile or so to Quentin’s left on the north side of the mountain. Quentin was fascinated. He reached out to the man with his mind, and suddenly felt a harsh slap as the man slammed a mental shield down with such force that, for a moment, Quentin’s talons lost their grip on the mountain rocks.
So this stranger had magic! Swiftly, Quentin flew down from the mountain and toward the man. He was a strange-looking creature. He wore a flowing green robe, had long, messy grey locks, and spectacles balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. As Quentin watched, he meandered back and forth along the path, so much so that Quentin wondered if he might be drunk. He was muttering to himself, but at this distance Quentin couldn’t make any sense of the words. He flew down and perched on a low branch of a tree near to the man’s path, and instantly the fellow stopped and stared directly at him.
He took out a short stubby silver wand from his pocket and pointed it at the eagle.
“Oh, no you don’t—you fiend! I felt you coming, I dids. You canna get past me . . . I’m a cunning . . . I’m a wise . . . I’m a ruthless . . . I am, um . . . tell me, what am I?” He scratched his head and a cascade of brown dust fell to the ground.
“Reveal yourself! Or I’ll . . . I’ll . . . do something, yes that’s right, I’ll do something!”
The man waved his wand around and several stray sparks flew out of it.
Quentin decided to take his chances. The man didn’t look particularly dangerous, despite the strength of his mental shield. Quentin flew down to the ground and changed back into his human form.
“Who are you, sir?” he asked.
“Me . . . I’m Gromer the Green, of course. I’m legendary in these parts. You haven’t heard of me? Perhaps you seek my guidance? But you have to pay, you know. No free spells . . . I used to be really good at spelling . . . Who did you say you were?”
“Um, I didn’t. I’m Quentin, sir, Quentin Frakes.” Quentin held out his hand to Gromer. Gromer looked at it, unsure what to do until Quentin gave up and put his hand down again.
“So, if you don’t want a spell, I reckon you want an answer . . . Everyone wants one of those, but answers, they’s not so easily found . . . and they’s expensive, they is. Come along, then.” And
he continued meandering up the path. Quentin, unsure what to do, followed.
As they wandered up the path, Gromer continued muttering to himself, and Quentin thought better about starting any kind of conversation. After about twenty-five minutes of walking, Gromer veered off the path toward a huge boulder. He stopped in front of it and withdrew his silver wand. As Quentin watched, he traced a few indistinct shapes on the rock face and mumbled an incoherent spell. A doorway appeared on the rock, and Gromer beckoned Quentin to follow him.
“Croeso! What did you say your name was again?”
“Um . . .,Quentin”
“Croeso Quentin o . . . where are you from?”
“Cheshire, I guess.”
“Croeso Quentin o Swydd Gaer I’r castell Gromer y Green! Welcome to my castle!” Gromer beamed at Quentin.
Quentin looked around the “castle.” There was basically one large room with a kitchenette off to one side, and some overstuffed armchairs around a fireplace where flames burnt merrily. In the corner of the room was a small television set with rabbit ears on top, and an old wireless radio sat on the sideboard.
All around the room were books: on bookshelves, tables, chairs, the floor, everywhere. There were some huge magical tomes, but there were also old ratty paperbacks. Quentin nearly tripped over a pile of Agatha Christie novels that were sitting on the floor, just by the entrance to the room.
On the stovetop in the kitchen area sat a large cauldron, and Quentin walked over to it and peered inside. Green liquid bubbled in its depths. What wondrous potion was this old magician concocting?
“Pea soup!” said Gromer, and he grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the cauldron vigorously. He then lifted the spoon and sucked on it. “Hmmm! Needs more wizzlewoop, methinks! What do you think?” And before Quentin could object, Gromer took the spoon and jammed it into Quentin’s mouth.
Argentum (P.A.W.S. Book 2) Page 5
