by Toni Kerr
Tristan glanced at the row of buildings, then at the trailhead leading to his cabin, through Eleonora’s. Anything to avoid the hard stare.
Without warning, the woman snatched his hand and held it palm up, keeping his fingers straight with the other. Tristan yelped, surprised by the strength of her grip on his wrist. “Let go!”
“Look at me,” the woman whispered.
His eyes automatically flicked to hers, pinning him with such an intense stare, he couldn’t possibly turn away. She held his hand a moment longer, then released it.
“You always were a yob.”
“A what?” Tristan found he could blink again and took several steps back, rubbing his wrist to get the circulation going.
“I don’t expect...never mind.”
“No. Tell me.” Confused and beyond frustrated, Tristan held back his temper as she took a smaller brush from the can and mixed a shade of orange on the palette.
“The cabin is fine?”
“You’re Eleonora?” Eccentric, rude, and very strange, just like Landon and Victor warned.
The woman nodded slowly, piercing him with another hard look. “What are you calling yourself these days?”
“Tristan.”
“Well then, Tristan, the cabin is fine?”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” he said, still flexing his fingers. “Thank you for letting me use it,” he added as an afterthought, unsure how to get on her good side.
“Well, it was…I suppose it wasn’t exactly yours.” She eyed him from head to toe and went back to work on her canvas. “You went and scared off my subject matter.”
Tristan studied the streaks of color and odd shapes, unable to see anything that resembled deer. Or wildlife for that matter.
“Posh!” she snorted in reply to Tristan’s inspection. “I suppose you could do better.”
“I don’t paint.”
“Don’t you?” The woman seemed genuinely surprised.
Tristan leaned closer to her painting to see if he’d missed something. “Never bothered, I guess.”
“That’s a terrible pity.”
“What do you mean the cabin was once mine, but not exactly?”
“The cabin was built by a man named Jacques. Only, he was with another at the time. If I recall correctly, the name was William.”
An oversized, dusty piece of luggage appeared at Tristan’s right, startling him back a few steps with an audible gasp. He nearly tripped over the leg of the woman’s easel.
“My!” Her amused smile grew suspiciously wider as Tristan scowled. “You are an interesting case.”
“I am not a case. I’m completely normal.” Never in his life had he used these words to describe himself.
“Normal? That’s a shame.” She shook her head and went back to her painting. “Open it.”
Tristan studied the upholstered luggage, expecting the fraying threads to disappear or disintegrate if he touched it.
“Go ahead, it’s yours.”
“What makes it mine?” Tristan knelt at the handle and wondered if there was a catch, or a bad joke he was setting himself up for.
“Consider it an inheritance from William.”
“I’m I related somehow? And who is Jacques?”
“It’s a possibility, and Jacques is more of a free spirit.” She dabbed at her canvas and began humming.
Tristan shut his mouth, deciding against judging the woman as senile so soon.
He unlatched the lid—which lifted unevenly and fell off its hinges. Inside, there were rows of thin wooden boxes containing used oils, pencils, and watercolors. He unrolled a piece of soft leather, which held at least twenty brushes organized according to size. There were several lengths of cardboard tubing, unmarked boxes, and a collapsible wooden easel with brass fittings. Next to that was something compressed in an airtight plastic bag.
Tristan held it up for Eleonora to see. “This too?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t be keeping any of my belongings in there.” She returned to her painting, as if insulted by the thought.
Tristan broke the seal and pulled out an old blanket. A bottle of wine fell from its folds, with foreign script and a frilly 1869. The blanket itself turned out to be a circular poncho.
Eleonora quickly turned back to her painting when Tristan glanced her way.
“It’s yours, go ahead and put it on.”
“Why is it mine?” It had to be a trick, but he couldn’t resist slipping the poncho over his head.
Warm, happy feelings eased his mind, soothed his soul. Like stepping into the warmth of summer sunshine after years of winter.
Tristan opened one of the round canisters and poured out layers of unused paper. Another held canvas.
“The paint has probably dried up,” Eleonora said. “But that cotton rag paper should still be in good shape.”
Tristan examined a box of paint tubes and compacts, varnish and thinners. The tubes had hardened, but not completely, and the paint in the compacts had shrunk and cracked. He held a small, darkened bottle toward the sky, certain the liquid inside was linseed oil.
He’d spent a lot of time sketching with pencils, but he’d never used any type of oil for anything. What made him think of linseed?
He jumped again, nearly dropping the bottle, when two armchairs and a small round table appeared in the grass beside him.
Eleonora laughed, shaking her head as she cleaned her hands. “Get some of that wood from over there.”
Tristan looked at the decaying structures. “What for?”
“Do you question everything? I was thinking a fire would be nice as the sky darkens.”
Still skeptical, Tristan left the case of art supplies for a load of wood. On his way back, he noticed the woman had changed completely. She looked both older and more elegant. The colorful smock had been replaced by a full length, earth-colored gown. The beret was gone, exposing a band of silver hair arching over her head like delicate jewelry. Her face seemed less wrinkled and more timeless.
On the table, a wooden serving plate held a decorative arrangement of cheese and crackers. She was smiling at the label on the wine bottle and didn’t seem to notice he’d returned.
He caught himself staring at her again, fighting the returning sense of déjà vu.
“Anywhere is fine,” she said.
Tristan let the wood fall to the ground. The pile erupted into flames—Tristan leaped out of the way. “Do you enjoy freaking me out like that?”
“It is rather peculiar how easily you...freak out.” She pulled a wine opener from her sleeve, which glimmered with copper and gold in the bright flames. “Shall I, then?”
“Sure.” Tristan took a quick glance toward the trail to her cabin and around the clearing, curious if she was expecting someone else to join her. “I’ll just—”
Eleonora bowed slightly and motioned him toward one of the chairs. “At least have some cheese. I think you’ll appreciate it...to some degree, anyway.”
Tristan frowned, trying to determine how serious she was.
Two crystal glasses appeared on the table; she poured a small amount of wine into each. He lowered himself into the chair and watched the woman swirl her wine. The liquid looked black, mixed with the orange of the firelight. She put the glass to her nose, breathed in, sighed, and finally took a sip. “Splendid.”
Tristan picked up his glass, swirling it like she had. “I’m underage.”
“Drinking laws don’t exist in a lot of countries.” She leaned back in her chair and gazed at the sky with a warm smile. “There’s certainly no law governing you here. You must have come from the States?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
“My mother’s an alcoholic.” Why was he telling her?
“It must have been interesting...having a mother.”
Tristan was about to object, then shut his mouth. Was not having a mother the norm for her? She definitely wasn’t playing with a full deck. He mentally apologized, in c
ase she could overhear his thoughts like Gram had.
“The Europeans don’t have a problem with their children having the occasional glass of wine,” she continued, “and you don’t see their continent overrun by alcoholic lunatics like you do in the States, where they restrict every imaginable thing with laws and regulations.” The woman used a small fork to pick up a slice of cheese and made several tisking noises. “Laws, laws, laws...as if that’ll make people behave.”
Feeling the need to defend his country, to prove that not all who drank were wild lunatics, Tristan took a sip and felt his cheeks flush with heat. “Laws do make people behave,” he finally said.
“Until they discover something that isn’t regulated, or they find a simple loophole…then they can’t seem to figure out what’s right and wrong and write more laws to cover new bases. Do try the cheese, the combination is superb.”
Tristan tried a small piece and agreed.
“What do you think it needs?” Eleonora drew a tight circle with her index finger and the easel with the painting spun toward the firelight. “You’re a good critic.”
“I’m not a critic. I’m not even a painter.” Tristan took another sip and studied the painting.
“Maybe you aren’t, but Jacques was. Surely he’s been an influence in your upbringing?”
“Who is this Jacques?”
“He’s a lovely spirit. 15th century, I believe.”
“And he just goes around haunting random people?”
“No. Certainly not random.”
Tristan tried not to roll his eyes and focused on the painting to change the subject. “Maybe you could explain it to me?”
“If it needs explaining, I have failed yet again.”
“It’s not a failure. I just don’t see it.”
“Hmmm. You probably prefer the realistic styles that could pass as a photograph.”
Tristan took another sip to hide his shock. He’d spent countless hours perfecting the grain of wood, the texture of rope, shadows and highlights with a sharp pencil.... But rarely in color and never abstract.
If he tried dating the ships he used to doodle in class, what century would they have been from? A chill ran through his shoulders. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Tell me about yourself these days. How have you managed so far?”
Tristan frowned. The woman definitely ranked in the top five strangest people he’d ever met. “I’ve done okay, considering.”
“Considering what?”
Tristan shrugged. “Everything.” He leaned back to consider the endless universe, feeling the warm buzz of wine, then told her his life story, careful to leave out any mention of dragon ancestry and certain parts of Ireland. “…So basically, I’m a psychopathic teenager on the run.”
She nodded, as she had through most of his whining, and refilled his glass for the third time. “You’re probably right.”
“How can you say that? My mother’s drug issues were never my fault, and I’m sure any child would wish his dad was around. There’re probably hundreds of people who can hear people’s thoughts, and y’all probably know how to not let it drive you insane. How was I supposed to know you all band together in the middle of nowhere? If I hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time, I never would have known you people exist.” Tristan stopped, finding her smile suspicious and maddening until something else dawned on him. “You didn’t know about me until I got messed up with Gwenna.”
She raised her glass to him. “The ways of the universe are strange indeed. People rarely understand and accept it.”
“I never said I understand or accept it.”
Her soft laughter faded as she looked thoughtfully at her painting. “People will believe anything that validates what they think is true. I’ve seen near everything as a gypsy outcast, socially unacceptable and too old to give a hoot. Who wants to work at getting along with others when life is so short?”
“Here, here,” Tristan whispered, raising his glass in cheers for a toast. He saddened though, thinking of Gram. “You’re not dying, are you? We’ve only just met.”
“Life doesn’t begin and end like that. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“No.” Tristan reconsidered his answer. “Maybe. Enough people do, and ghost stories might’ve been based on something real, at some point in time.” Tristan watched the flames, debating the existence of Heaven and Hell, and who had dibs on his soul after the events in Ireland. “I don’t know what to believe these days. I don’t even know what month this is.” He could hear his words slurring and found the statement funny. “I haven’t known the time of day for several months at least.”
He shielded his eyes from the firelight with his hand and peered up at the stars to judge the season. It seemed like such a natural thing to do and his mouth gaped farther as he realized he was identifying several constellations and calculating a calendar in his head.
He shut his eyes, trying to decipher the fleeting thoughts. The wine, Eleonora, the cabin, the poncho, the case of art supplies…. He’d never seen them before, yet, he knew them well. Part of him felt proud and relieved, the other wondered how he could keep himself in denial without making a complete fool of himself.
Eleonora’s laughter drew him out of his confused state and he smiled gratefully.
“Poor Jacques.” She laughed again. “You’ve probably been fighting him tooth and nail, every step of the way.”
“How do you know?” Tristan tried to pay attention, tired of tangled philosophical conversations. He looked at his wine glass, thankful to see it empty. Good thing there was no chance of driving anywhere.
“We were friends, in a way. It’s hard to explain. William had an open mind for Jacques, and I was able to get to know the spirit through that connection. Communication was difficult to say the least, and people thought we were quite strange, but William was a good sport about letting me probe around in his head.
“I believe Jacques was forbidden to talk to me, and perhaps got caught, but we did have some marvelous adventures.”
“Caught by who?”
“The spirit council, I suppose. He warned me that he’d likely be pulled from William, and I promised I’d keep this stuff and pass the case on to the next person with....”
Tristan waited, unsure if he was supposed to be able to finish her sentence. “With what?”
“The next person with dragon blood.”
“Why does everyone think that?” Tristan rolled his eyes and shook his head. “So, was he pulled?”
“The night I made my promise, William died in his sleep.”
“Oh.” Tristan envisioned intertwined spirits being ripped apart and felt the urge to run and hide. “I’m sorry. But, um, didn’t you say this Jacques spirit is with me now?” Maybe she only implied such a thing.
The woman nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Jacques and someone new. But you needn’t worry.”
“I have two ghosts haunting me?” The idea made it seem even less realistic. How gullible should he be?
“Jacques is very much a part of you. He’s probably been with you since birth. But this other man...he’s new.”
Tristan stared unblinking. Was he in paranormal danger or not? Did he miss the punch-line somewhere?
“Jacques was always a rebel, but he won’t hurt you. He clearly doesn’t have the same connection with you as he did with William, or he’d be training you himself by now.”
Tristan wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or insulted, but he wasn’t about to let himself be possessed by someone. Or something. Though he obviously needed the training. He diverted the conversation to something safer. “Tell me about your painting.”
“Tell me about Ireland,” she said, with equal determination.
He gripped the soft leather pouch hanging from around his neck and held his breath. The pouch contained Cyanea coral and he’d been instructed to keep it with him at all times. But he’d taken the necklace off in Ireland and wrapped it around the f
alcon’s neck as a sort of SOS message for Oliver and Gram, sending the bird to Dorian’s island.
Landon and Victor gave it back.
“They got me out—” An onslaught of depression strangled his lungs. He counted stars for several silent minutes, burying all astronomy knowledge as deep as he could, along with the threat of tears. Was astronomy part of Jacques’ influence? “They’re really great people, Landon and Victor.”
“They have their moments.” She didn’t sound happy or sad about it.
“Fine. I managed to kill several people in Ireland. I’m surprised I didn’t kill Landon or Victor by mistake, it was so dark.” Tristan stared into the flames, reminded of the forest fire that no one else could see. He hadn’t meant to ever tell anyone and clenched his jaw, waiting for her to list all the options he should have tried, had he seen any at the time.
“Isn’t it a pity how Victor has changed everything around here?”
Every tense muscle relaxed the instant he exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “He’s incredible.”
“There’s just something to be said about washing your clothing by hand. I personally refuse to take part with most of his gadgetries.”
“Why?” The sound of his own curious laughter caught him off guard. How much wine had he consumed? “I had to wash clothes by hand all summer and it’s not enjoyable at all. So if Victor has some gadget to make it easy, then cheers to him!” Tristan held up his glass, forgetting it was empty. She filled it.
“Easy isn’t the point,” Eleonora said in a stern voice. “It’s the principle. Landon understands.”
“Landon washes his clothes by hand?”
“No, I’m sure he uses that hybrid contraption thing just like everyone else.”
“How is it any different than using a regular washing machine?”
“Exactly. I object to those, too.”
“I don’t plan to wash my clothes by hand if I don’t have to, just so you know. I need easy. Easy is good.”
“The sooner you let go of what you think you know, the easier everything will be.”
“That won’t be hard.” Tristan’s grin faltered, attempting to avoid the seriousness of her tone. “I don’t even know how to ride a bicycle.”
