Pooka in My Pantry

by R. L. Naquin

  Uncertainty trickled from his skin like drops of sour milk. “You’ll eat real food, not just sandwiches and takeout?”

  I drew an X on my chest. “Cross my heart.”

  His big yellow eyes stared at my face for a long moment before he made his final decision. “Will you help me pack my stuff?”

  I hadn’t expected him to leave so fast, but it was usually best to rip the bandage off all at once rather than make it slow and tortuous.

  Despite his request, Maurice wouldn’t let me help.

  “Sit-sit-sit,” he said, pushing me into a chair to watch the frenetic activity. Once Maurice committed to something, he went at it whole-heartedly. He hummed while he gathered his things, occasionally breaking out into a nonsense song made up on the spot.

  “Packin’ up my stuff (uh-uh-uh). Gettin’ all my gear (uh-uh-uh). Gonna take a trip (uh-uh-uh). Soooooooooo...everyone can cheer (uh-uh, uh-uh-uh. Uh.)”

  I tried to smile in encouragement, at the same time swallowing a lump in my throat. He’d come back, right? This was temporary. Even if he fixed things with Pansy—though I couldn’t imagine how that could be possible—he’d still visit, right?

  He didn’t have much to pack. A few gaudy Hawaiian shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans and brightly printed slacks. The iPod I bought him for noise during the day when I was at work. It all fit into a knapsack I didn’t know he owned. He tucked his arms through both straps and hitched it across his back as if preparing for a hiking trip. He clutched the loafer in his hand.

  “So, I’m off,” he said. His eyes darted to the open closet, betraying his urgency to get on with it. “Are you sure you’ll be alright without me?”

  I waved my hand in dismissal. “Pfff. I’m a big girl. Sort out Pansy. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  He looked unconvinced. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

  I arranged my face in the most serious, sincere expression I could muster. “I swear it. I’ll even try to keep from leaving my clothes on the floor.”

  “That would be something. Soak that skirt or it’ll never come clean.” His foot tapped, as if impatient to set off, with or without its owner. “Hey, I didn’t ask. Did you see Riley?”

  “I saw him. He’s fine.”

  “But are you fine?”

  I could see how eager he was to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop taking care of me. There was no way I could tell him now that I probably had a death sentence hanging over me or that I’d been threatened by the Leprechaun Mafia. He had his own business to deal with. Zoey was just going to have to take care of Zoey this time.

  “He had to go for retraining, but he’s back now. I’m fine.”

  He tilted his head and pursed his lips, as if trying to read me for lies. I don’t think he was entirely convinced. He glanced at the closet door and then at me. “Are you sure you don’t need anything before I go?”

  “Maurice, if you’re going, go. Or stay and we’ll have dinner. But make up your mind.” I grabbed him by the shoulders and hugged him tight. I didn’t want to let go. I was scared for him. I was scared for me. And honestly, I was a little unhappy with the prospect of living alone again. Before I released him, I whispered into his pale, cavernous ear. “I’m right here if you need me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I prayed it wasn’t a lie.

  He stepped out of my arms, faced the closet, and vanished into it as if he’d never been there. Now that he was gone, it hit me that I had no way to contact him. I brushed away the tears on my cheeks and padded out, closing the door softly behind me.

  The house was so quiet without him. Within minutes I missed his tuneless humming and mindless chatter. I told myself he’d be back soon, but there was a tiny voice in my head warning me to prepare for the possibility that he’d fix things with Pansy and never come home. My throat tightened at the thought—for myself just as much as for him. I’d never met her, but it was her affair with a bridge troll that had sent Maurice to me in the first place. I wanted better for him than an unfaithful wife. And let’s be honest. I didn’t really want to be alone anymore.

  What kind of friend hopes somebody’s marriage will fail? The worst kind, that’s what.

  I wandered into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. I’d promised to eat, but I hadn’t promised to cook. Okay, I did promise I wouldn’t live on sandwiches, but this was only my first night on my own.

  I rummaged through the fridge, examining plastic containers of exquisite leftovers. He’d left me enough to go a week before I had to consider making anything myself.

  The doorbell rang, and I flinched, bumping my head on the open freezer door above me.

  “Dammit.” I rubbed at the spot on my crown, hoping it wouldn’t well up into an egg. There wasn’t any blood, so that was at least something.

  At the front door, I peered through the curtained window. All I could see was the top of a brownish mop of hair. Whoever was there wasn’t tall enough for me to see much more.

  Please, don’t let it be more leprechauns.

  When I opened the door, a dour-faced, hairy man, about four and a half feet tall, greeted me.

  “Zoey Donovan?” he asked.

  “Maybe?” Great. This was probably the IRS springing an audit on me. I had the urge to slam and bolt the door.

  The man had a small suitcase clutched in each of his hands. He put them both down and stood up straight. “Yes or no. Are you Zoey Donovan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Excellent.” He rubbed the palms of his hands on his pants, then grabbed his luggage again. “I’d like a room. Preferably with my own bathroom. I like to soak.” He brushed past me and into the house, leaving me agog and bewildered.

  Maurice would have known what to do, but Maurice was gone. I could have run around the house and asked Molly to come inside to help me, but she was busy with her family. It was time for me to learn to deal with this kind of thing on my own. I pulled my shoulders back and tried to get control of the situation.

  “This is not a hotel,” I said. “You can’t just—”

  The hairy little man stood at the fireplace, fiddling with a rock that Phil, a visiting gargoyle, had left me as a gift. “Interesting,” he said. “Hard to come by. Mind if I borrow it?” The rock disappeared into his pocket.

  “Who are you?” Helplessness and exasperation lapped at my heels. And, though I had no idea what—if anything—it did, I wanted my rock back.

  He turned away from the mantle and blinked at me. “I’m Silas. Is my room ready?”

  “There’s no room to get ready. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but you can’t walk in here looking for a place to stay. This is my home, not a hotel.” I picked up the luggage he’d left by the door and put them on the porch. “Please leave.”

  By the time I turned around to face him, the suitcases were sitting in the middle of my living room again.

  “I see we’re at cross purposes here,” he said. “I’m here for a room. I’m also a pooka, and sweetheart, like it or not, we go where we want.”

  Once again, I felt woefully uninformed about the supernatural inhabitants invading my world. A pooka? I searched my limited memory of folklore and came up with a single reference.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a six-foot-tall rabbit?”

  He glared at me. “Harvey? Is that all you’ve got?”

  “Pookas aren’t giant white rabbits?”

  His squat little body shimmered and grew. He solidified, and a human-sized rabbit glared at me through pink eyes. “Better?”

  The most disturbing part of his transformation was his sudden lack of pants.

  “Point taken.”

  He morphed into his short, humanoid form, pants intact. “If you’ll show me to my room, I’d like to take a nap. Your place isn’t exactly on the way to
anywhere. I’ve been traveling for days.”

  “Not so fast. I’m willing to help people when I can, but I don’t know you, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, and I don’t know why I should help you. You might try working on your people skills.”

  I blinked and he was gone. “Never mind. The house isn’t that big. I’ll show myself in.” The disembodied voice moved to the abandoned suitcases, which did a stunning job of picking themselves up and floating in the air. “You know, you’re not nearly as hospitable as people say you are.” The luggage bobbed down the hall, and I heard the door to my guestroom—Maurice’s room—slam shut.

  I didn’t see or hear him for the rest of the night. I knew it was a slim chance, but I hoped his silence meant he’d either left or was going to be no trouble.

  All hope was lost the next morning when I walked into my bathroom.

  Wet towels lay in heaps on the floor. The medicine cabinet hung wide open, its contents strewn everywhere. My shampoo bottle sat upended and empty, and a puddle of conditioner dried to a sludge on the tub ledge.

  I knew that was not my hair collecting water in the sink.

  I went to look for the inconsiderate pooka and found him in the kitchen, sitting on my counter, eating a bowl of cereal. He was clothed in a bright blue polo shirt. And nothing else.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “What is it with you and pants? Get your naked ass off my counter. That’s disgusting.”

  I rummaged under the sink and came up with a spray bottle of disinfectant and a fresh sponge. When I waved it at him in my most threatening manner, he jumped down, spilling milk and Fruit Loops on the floor.

  “Now look at what you made me do,” he said. He made no move to clean up the new mess, but he did replace what he lost with more cereal and milk.

  “Get out,” I said. I sprayed the counter, scrubbed at it, then sprayed it again. I didn’t think it would ever be clean enough. It would probably have to be replaced if I ever wanted to put food on it again. From the corner of my eye, I saw him pull a chair away from the table. “Oh, hell, no. You don’t sit anywhere without clothes.”

  His spoon didn’t pause in the act of shoveling breakfast into his mouth. His naked, hairy body shivered, and a pair of brown corduroys appeared on his bottom half.

  He sat in Maurice’s chair without looking at me. Having finished the solid bits, he tipped his head back and slurped the milk in his bowl until it was gone. A window-shaking belch followed.

  “I haven’t had those since I was a kid,” he said. The spoon clattered and he pushed the bowl across the table.

  “Put it in the dishwasher.” I knelt on the floor, mopping up milk and cereal. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a pooka. Look it up.” His stomach gurgled. “Do you have any bacon?”

  The image of the house fire he would cause appeared fully formed in my head. “No, there’s no bacon. Don’t you have some place to be?”

  He yawned and looked at his wrist. A gaudy watch that hadn’t been there a second ago flashed into being. “Actually, I do. I’m overdue for my morning nap.”

  He disappeared before I could protest. The only indication of where he went was the click of my guestroom door.

  I stood in my empty kitchen, a damp sponge dripping in my hand, and tried to breathe in some calm. “Maurice, I wish you’d come home.”

  One thing was clear. I couldn’t possibly go to work. I might have an hour or two before Silas woke up, but leaving him here alone for a full day was likely to leave me homeless.

  I called Sara. “I have a home emergency to take care of.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Uh, broken pipe. I need to get a plumber in before I’m flooded.” Lying again. To my best friend. I both hoped and dreaded that telling lies would get easier. It looked like this sort of craziness would be my permanent lot in life, so I’d better get good at it fast.

  “I’ve got a great plumber I use. Let me call him for you.”

  “No! I mean, no, that’s okay. I’ve got somebody already on his way.”

  “Get an estimate first. Don’t let him screw you over.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I gave her the details of my two o’clock meeting with a caterer so she could go in my place, then hung up.

  My bathroom was disgusting. I needed a shower. But more than anything else, I needed help.

  I tried Molly’s house first. She and her three kids lived in a huge, hollowed-out mushroom in the far corner of the yard behind my house. They’d lived in my linen closet for a little while, but Molly needed her own place. I counted my blessings that she hadn’t gone far.

  I bent and knocked on the tiny door, politely averting my eyes from looking in their windows. After a minute or two, Molly’s son, Aaron, opened the door.

  Timing is everything. I’d missed Molly by about ten minutes.

  “She’ll be back tonight, though,” he said. “Do you want me to go find her?”

  “No, that’s okay. Maybe I’ll come back later. Do you know anything about pookas, by any chance?”

  He wrinkled his nut-brown nose and scratched a tiny, pointed ear. “I’ve never met one. But I’ve heard of them. They aren’t nice.”

  I nodded in agreement. “No, they really aren’t. Please tell your mom I came by. I’ll come back later if I can.”

  Well, crap. No help there.

  Eucalyptus and pine grew in the woods around my house. I crossed from my yard into the trees, listening to the needles and dried leaves crunch underfoot. I loved the smell under the canopy. The astringent scents prickled my nose and made me feel clean, despite the lack of shower and extreme grossness of the morning. I stood still and waited. There was no point in searching for a skunk-ape. They were relatives of Bigfoot. They didn’t get seen unless they wanted to be seen.

  Iris arrived seconds later. I hadn’t heard him approach, though my own footfalls in the underbrush had been loud enough to make the birds go silent. As usual, he smelled lovely, like a fresh bouquet of wildflowers picked after a cleansing rain. This was not a popular trait with skunk-apes, which was why he lived near me, instead of with his own kind on Florida and Louisiana swampland.

  My furry bodyguard grinned down at me and grunted.

  Oh, right. This might be a problem. While Iris could understand me, I couldn’t understand him at all. Molly translated. But it couldn’t be that complicated, could it? I had an unwanted houseguest. I had a bodyguard/bouncer. The one should take care of the other.

  “I have a pooka infestation,” I said.

  His smile faltered, and he snorted.

  “He’s in the house messing everything up, and he won’t leave. Can you get him to leave?”

  Iris looked over my head toward the house. He made a series of huffing and blowing noises, and his big hands moved around as if trying to help explain. I didn’t follow.

  “Does that mean no?”

  He shook his hairy head and patted me on the shoulder with an air of consolation.

  “Who is this guy?” I rubbed my hands over my face and tried to clear my head. “Never mind. Thanks for trying to explain.”

  Iris nodded his head and smiled his toothy grin.

  “I’m going out for a little bit. Can you keep a close eye on the house? Make sure he doesn’t blow it up in my absence, at least?”

  He chuffed and tapped his chest, then ducked into the yard. He looked like an oversized, fuzzy Navy Seal on a reconnaissance mission.

  I had one last place to look for answers and help. It was probably where I should have started. I needed to cross through the woods to visit the witch.

  Chapter Five

  Aggie the Hag had been a friend of my mother’s. Until recently, I didn’t know she existed. That’s not true. I didn’t remem
ber she existed. For some reason that Aggie and I had yet to work out, most of my memories from before I was eight were gone. It seemed that when my mother left, she took my memories of the supernatural with her.

  Bits and pieces came back each time I went to see Aggie. It didn’t hurt that we were also creating new memories together. My newfound fondness for her recalled the emotions she inspired in me when I was little. And with them came hazy remembrances of playing with fire salamanders, chatting with gnomes and swimming with mermaid kids my own age.

  When I emerged from the trees and into the clearing, Aggie’s little house was almost as familiar as my own home. Unlike the foreboding shack I had expected on my first return two months ago, it was a warm and charming cottage surrounded by flowers and a white picket fence.

  Aggie herself was not the wrinkled-up crone of stories, hunchbacked and cackling. She was a sweet old granny-type with bouncing white curls, a happy smile, and a laugh like wind chimes in a soft breeze.

  She stood waiting for me by the gate. She often seemed to know I was coming before I did, as evidenced by the warm cookies piled on a plate on the kitchen table.

  Whether she was truly magical, I didn’t know. But Aggie knew things. She also kept a lot of my mother’s old books for me. With or without magic, this is where I would find answers.

  The cookies that day were chocolate chip. The chocolate was still warm and gooey, and the milk was ice cold. For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, I felt warm and safe. The house was quiet, except for the ticking of hundreds of clocks. At the top of every hour, I had to cover my ears when they all went off at once.

  “A pooka?” she said, wiping up a stray crumb. “I’ll have to check the books and see what we can find. They’re tricksters, I know that.”

  I gave her a dry smile. “I did figure out that much.”

  She frowned, thinking. “Maybe they’re bad luck. A serendipity spell might send him away.”

  “I could use a little luck, actually. I’ve been so clumsy lately. And you’re not going to believe what else happened.”

  I told her about the Board of Hidden Affairs and the tests they planned to determine if I had the right to remain breathing. This news seemed to bother her far more than the pooka.