Into the Mystic, Volume One

by Tay LaRoi

  There was nothing for it but to wrap myself up in the too-large oilskin coat, pull on my boots, bundle the dresses in a tarp, place the package underneath the coat, and hug myself tightly. I dashed down the road into town, panting but not slowing down as I turned down Main Street and jogged as quick as I could up to the theater, trying to keep myself and the dresses as dry as might be.

  Of course, it was shuttered and dark. No rehearsal at the moment, which meant I was going to have to go into the hotel. The rain would keep everyone inside, so at least there was less chance of someone seeing me go in and starting all kinds of rumors.

  Once inside the hotel and looking around the lobby where a great many people seemed to be wandering around, I was just starting to wonder who to ask when Marie herself appeared. “Cissy McGurk!” she cried out, as if we were age-old friends. “What in heaven’s name are you doing out in this weather?”

  “I finished the dresses,” I said in a small voice, feeling myself dripping all over the lobby carpet.

  “And brought them over in this? It’s raining cats and dogs out! Oh, what dedicated service,” she said, shaking her head but looking pleased. “Still, I’m glad you came. And there’s no question of you going back out in that until it at least lets up a little. Come on, I’ll get you some towels.”

  I followed her down a hallway and up some worn-down stairs, my boots making wet little squishy noises with each step. She took out a key and opened the door to one of the hotel rooms. I stepped in and looked around. There were a great deal of clothes scattered about, but other than the paints and powders on the dresser that someone like Cousin Martha would hiss over, there was nothing in the room that looked particularly scandalous. It looked like any bedroom.

  Marie took the oilskin off me and found a hanger to drape it on. She left it to drip off a hook on the back of the door. I held out the packaged-up dresses to her.

  “Excellent,” she said, taking them and placing the slightly damp parcel on her bed, already covered in assorted clothes, papers, and books. “But let’s get you dry first.” She grabbed a towel from next to the washstand and dabbed at my face. I took the towel and began doing my best to dry off the rest of me.

  “I have some socks you can borrow,” she told me, rummaging in a drawer and handing me a pair of thick, practical wool socks.

  Gratefully, I slipped off the boots and stripped off my damp socks. Marie grabbed them and placed them on a rack along with some other clothes she had drying. I noticed some were underthings and looked away, trying not to blush. But so many ruffles! Why such frills on something that was covered up, my mind started to wonder, and as the obvious answer occurred to me, I hastened to pull on the dry socks and began to stammer about needing to leave soon.

  “Let’s get the gowns hung up properly,” she told me, undoing my package. “Not wet at all!” she exclaimed as she got the tarp off and felt the fabrics. “Oh, you are a treasure. I wish half the stage hands were as careful with props as you’ve been.”

  She unfurled them properly and found two more hangers to get them in their right shapes.

  “And I can’t see the rips at all. What a wonderful job. I’m so glad that old biddy pointed me in your direction. Can I get you anything? I feel like such a poor hostess. Properly, there should be overstuffed arm chairs and a marble fireplace and a butler bringing in a silver tea tray. Instead, all I can offer you is whatever spot on the bed that isn’t covered with script books, the dubious charms of this radiator, and some day-old coffee I’ve been drinking from as I review stage directions.” As she spoke, she poured some brown liquid from a dented pot into a chipped clay mug.

  I sipped. It was only lukewarm, as she had warned. “Real coffee,” I said appreciatively. “We mostly just have chicory at home. Cousin Martha says coffee is a waste of money, and wasting money is a sin.” I twisted my mouth into a bitter smile. “Most things Martha doesn’t like to do are also conveniently sins,” I confided to Marie.

  Marie nodded. “Oh, I’ve seen the like more often than not. As many people as we meet on the road who are happy to get a little entertainment, there’s just as many who tell us we’re sure to go to hell.”

  “Just for putting on plays? The bible study class puts on plays all the time.”

  “But just Bible stories, I’m betting,” said Marie.

  “Well, yes, but we’ve got the movie house in town, and same folks who go to church will go see the films.”

  “Yes, but those people on the screen might as well be fictitious as the characters they play, since folks around here aren’t likely to ever meet them. But a theater troupe? We’re here, right in front of you, and you can’t pretend we stop existing before and after the play. And worse, we don’t stick to the script of what some think a normal life should be. So people imagine about all the sorts of things we might be doing when we aren’t on stage.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  “You seem normal,” I said cautiously. “You’re prettier than anyone I’ve ever met, but you don’t seem bad.”

  “I’ll take both compliments,” she said with mock graveness. “And I will tell you the deep, dark secret about theater folks like me. When we aren’t on stage, most of our time is spent worrying about train schedules, how to move all the props without breaking them, and what shows will sell the most tickets. We have bills to pay, same as anyone else. Don’t ever let anyone tell you there is money to be made in show business, because there isn’t. If we break even, we’re ecstatic. We spend more time haggling over prices than rehearsing, some days.”

  “So why do it?” I asked, curious.

  She opened her large blue eyes even wider at me. “Because it’s the show that matters! When the curtain goes up, the rest of the world and your worries just disappear, and you can be someone else, somewhere else, and what’s more, bring that other world to folks who might never have otherwise seen real art. We spread culture and ideas, let people think just a little differently about something, see a new perspective!”

  She was practically panting with excitement, waving her arms around and sloshing her coffee a bit in her enthusiasm. She reminded me strongly of some folks I’d seen at church talking about Jesus. This was her religion.

  She sat down on the bed next to me, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry, I get a little overenthusiastic sometimes. I live for a fresh audience.”

  “You are quare,” I blurted out.

  “Queer?” she asked.

  “Quare,” I repeated, emphasizing the A. “It’s a word older folks around here use to say someone is, um, ‘eccentric’,” I fumbled to explain.

  Marie laughed. “Yes, well, you have to be eccentric to take on the actors’ life. I think it’s a rule somewhere.”

  She shifted slightly to find a more comfortable spot on the bed, and I was very conscious of her warm leg pressing against mine. I could smell her perfume, something with lavender in it. The smell of flowers made my mind leap back over to Pearl.

  I glanced out the window where the rain was still coming down. “Poor Pearl,” I said, without thinking, as I wondered how she was doing with all this rain. Undead was bad enough, but undead and soaking wet just added insult to injury.

  “She was your friend that died?” asked Marie softly. She put her hand on my knee.

  I glanced down at her hand; she took it away, not awkwardly, but in a way I could only describe as gracious.

  “She was the most wonderful person I ever knew,” I said, feeling my lip tremble.

  “You loved her, didn’t you?” asked Marie.

  My eyes slid leftward of their own accord. “Pearl was like a sister to me,” I said, not meeting her eyes.

  “No, she wasn’t,” Marie said firmly. “Lie to the world if you have to, but don’t lie to yourself.”

  I met her gaze. “I miss her,” I told her. I felt a chain start to loosen around my heart. “Yes, I loved her and wanted to spend my whole life with her.” The chain seemed to drop. I hadn’t known Marie more than an hour and ye
t trusted her more than the people I’d known for years. It was a relief to say out loud what I had kept bottled up for so long.

  She squeezed my hands. “Love isn’t a bad thing. And don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”

  I smiled. “That’s good to hear. I—” I stopped as I suddenly realized that sitting on top of Marie’s dresser was a pristine white glove.

  “Is that glove a prop?” I asked in a small voice.

  Marie got off the bed to pick it up. “I, uh, found it recently. Why?”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the glove Death had given me. “I think I have its mate.” It was still dry and seemed to shine slightly in the gloom.

  “I…I thought it was just a dream—too much wine and Shakespeare before bed—but it was here when I woke. He said—”

  “Look for the mate?” I asked.

  Marie nodded. “He was kind enough to tell me my father was at peace, but then he went on about things being out of balance and how I was to help the person with the other glove. And he had the audacity to quote the Bard at me!” She sounded indignant. “You’d think Death would be more creative!” She took a deep breath and then peered closely at the glove in my hand. “I hope you know more than I do about what’s going on.”

  “Well,” I said and launched into the full story of recent events.

  Marie was silent the whole time as I spoke, clutching her coffee mug as she stared at me as if I was describing some fascinating new play.

  “And he said the gloves would help, but didn’t explain why,” I concluded, relieved to get the whole story out but exasperated all over again at Death’s vague orders.

  Marie gently poked one of the fingers with her own fingertip. “Gloves are to protect the hands,” she said slowly. “So, what do you do with your hands that needs protecting?”

  “Pulling really bad thorns or weeds that’ll give you rashes need leather gloves,” I said.

  “Exactly. And he did mention removing something. If there’s some curse or bad magic that needs to be removed, maybe wearing these will let you remove it without getting torn up yourself.”

  I blinked at her. As crazy as the whole situation was, that did make sense.

  She continued to stare at the gloves thoughtfully. “How to test that idea?” she mused, biting her plump lip, smudging the paint.

  I looked away, wrenching my thoughts back to curses and away from kissable lips. “There’s a cursed goat!” I exclaimed, jumping up with excitement.

  “What?”

  “There’s a goat everyone’s just given up on doing anything about. Mrs. Gregson’s goat was always getting loose to wander a bit before coming back, but last time he strayed, he came back acting past quare. We think he might have gotten into some hedge-witch’s garden up in the hills and been cursed for trespassing. He’d be perfect to test the gloves on!”

  Marie eyed the easing rain outside the window uncertainty. “I suppose,” she conceded.

  I reassembled myself into boots and oilskin as Marie pulled on a pair of somewhat practical shoes and a fashionably oversized tan trench coat. Thankfully, the rain had stopped completely by the time we were halfway to the Gregson farm, just outside town. Once there, we skirted round the back where they kept the goat, now quite firmly penned up. As usual, it was walking about on its hind legs, bleating in tongues, the occasional tears of blood from its eyes.

  I pulled on the white gloves and let myself into the pen. I walked up to it and put my hands on its hairy back. I thought about pulling weeds, imagined separating the magic from the natural way of things. The more I thought about it, the more I could see something—a hazy, smoky thing, twisted in and around the poor animal, very like a weed, actually, and I wrapped my gloved hands around it and pulled.

  The goat gave a plaintive bleat, Marie gave a gasp, but I kept pulling, determined not to let some invisible weed get the better of me. I tugged for a few minutes, with nothing seeming to change, and then with one hard pull as I imagined the goat and curse separating, something seemed to come loose.

  After that, it was more about pulling it all out, the stubborn magic giving ground to my gloves and insistent tugs. I coiled it up in my hands. It was the ugliest skein I had ever seen, a growling dark-gray yarn with angry lightning flashes in it. It lashed about, as if seeking something new to cling to. I held my hands aloft, arms extended, careful not to stand near the goat or Marie or let the magic weed-yarn thing near my own skin. I squeezed my gloved hands around it. “Be gone!” I yelled at it, the words popping out of my mouth without any prior thought.

  And it then was gone.

  My hands were suddenly empty and my arms shook in exhaustion.

  “By Jove,” said Marie reverently.

  The goat gave a happy bleat, ran on all four legs in a circle, and then promptly began trying to eat a corner of Marie’s coat.

  “He seems all goat now,” said Marie, disgruntled as she yanked the coat back and scrambled out of the pen.

  I followed and made sure to latch the pen door behind me. “And the gloves remove curses,” I said. I still had them on. I looked down at them. They were still almost blindingly white and dry, despite having just wrestled with a shaggy goat that had been standing in the rain.

  I looked up and saw the world had a slightly hazy look to it. Or rather, there were extra bits of various colored strings and flashes here and there on top of things. A horseshoe above a door had a cheerful glow to it, the grass and flowers all seemed to have an extra green shine to them, and an old boarded-up well nearby that everyone knew to avoid had a crackling sickly yellow tinge hovering around it.

  “The gloves help me see,” I said slowly.

  “I think I’m beyond questioning anything at this point,” said Marie, still sounding confused.

  “I think Death’s gift helps me see magic, good or bad. If I wear these, I should be able to follow whatever’s making Pearl and others rise back to the source.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Marie.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I protested.

  “Are you kidding? I have to see the final act!”

  So, warning her to wear whichever shoes she cared least about, in case we had to tramp through any amount of mud, I told her to meet me at the rectory at moonrise that night.

  As we made our way towards the cemetery, I pulled on Death’s gloves and had to stop, blinded as though I had just chopped a full bag of onions.

  “What?” asked Marie.

  “The church,” I said, still blinking hard, “it’s covered in…everything, good and bad. It’s a mess of lights.”

  Marie snorted. “Not surprising. I shudder to think what the Catholic church I went to as a girl would look like.”

  I stopped to stare at her. “You’re Catholic?”

  “What? Did your cousin tell you all Catholics drank blood or something?”

  I mumbled something about them probably not being that bad and quickly went back to looking for other magics. And there was something. “It looks like flooding,” I told Marie. “Or maybe more like the stain afterwards of the damp and debris when floodwaters go back down. It looks like it flowed into the cemetery from up there,” I pointed towards a forested hill.

  We walked into the forest and up the hill. At some point, I realized we were holding each other’s hand. We reached the top where there was a little clearing and a small cabin.

  “The Vaughns used to live here, but they moved out west a while back,” I whispered to Marie, “but the magic traces seem to center right there.” I started to point at the large rock in the middle of the clearing, when the door to the cabin opened, and even in the darkness, we could see someone step out.

  Marie and I huddled behind a tree, peering out cautiously. The figure made his way to the rock and scrambled on top of it. It was as large as a supper table, with a great gaping split down the middle, all covered in moss. It had a dull glow to it, as it seemed to shine sullenly in my enhanced vision.

&
nbsp; I remembered there were a lot of stories about that rock, some about how it had been split by the axe of a Viking hundreds of years ago when he had struck down an evil giant and others about how it had been split open when a demon had escaped from hell.

  The person standing on the rock had a glow to him too. It was a boy who looked just a few years younger than me. I squinted and realized I recognized him. “That’s Ernest MacLeod,” I whispered. “I knew him in school. He was a few classes behind me. He’s always been…odd. I don’t think he has any family left, just some distant kinfolk who took turns raising him. Looks like he just took over the old cabin and—”

  I stopped talking at that point and just stared, horrified to see him seeming to reach into the rock and pull the magic glow from it. Then he cast his arms out, shouting something, flinging the glow wide. Marie and I both winced but didn’t feel anything. However, more of the nightwalkers, including Pearl, shambled out of the forest, looking confused and exhausted. Ernest didn’t look surprised by the nightwalkers, only, by the slump in his shoulders, disappointed.

  I felt my hands itch and decided there was nothing for it but confrontation. “Stay here,” I told Marie.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she agreed, hunkering behind the tree. “Be careful.”

  I stepped out into the clearing. “Ernest!” I called out.

  He looked up, startled. “Cissy?” he asked, puzzled by my sudden appearance.

  “What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

  He looked sheepish. He jumped down off the rock, and we walked towards each other. I moved cautiously, while he simply strode forward, oblivious to any tension.

  “I wasn’t planning on telling anyone until I got it right, but you might as well know now, I’m doing magic.” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world to stand on a rock in the middle of the night and cast spells that woke the dead.

  “I figured that out. But why? Why on earth are you bringing the dead back like that?”

  He rubbed the back of his head with embarrassment and glanced at the undead at the edge of the clearing. “Yeah, that wasn’t on purpose. Sorry. I bet they were disturbing you, living right next to the cemetery and all.”