Aye, I am a Fairy

by Dani Haviland

  Wee Ian’s eyes sparkled at hearing the question. He hadn’t thought about that! Still seated, he looked at his immediate surroundings. He pursed his lips as he stared at his father’s deep sleep, then changed focus to his new friends—the heroic but weakened James, leaning against the tree; Leah the healer doing the detective dance; and down the rise, the helpful but talkative Marty, his broad-shouldered figure disappearing into the landscape, foraging for food again. He shifted his eyes as he tried to justify his request with himself before voicing it.

  Leah could see the thoughts spinning in Wee Ian’s head. He had some serious decision making ahead of him—maybe she could make it easier.

  “If you want to see if you can round up the horses, I’ll keep an eye on your father. If you need help, I’m sure Marty would be happy to join you. I think James better stay put for a while, though.”

  The relieved youth stood up straight and tall to answer, addressing the couple with carefully-worded solemn respect. “Ye have been most kind and helpful to me and my father in this…this mess, and if ye could see to stay by his side a wee bit longer, I’ll get the horses. I only need to get the one, and then the others will follow.” A grin of realization appeared on his face, and his voice brightened up. “And I’ll wager there’s at least one pot in the saddlebags that used to belong to those three.” He tilted his head toward the burial mound and added, a full white-toothed smile now shining bright, “They willna be needin’ their goods anymore, that’s fer sure.”

  Ian stuck his nose in the air and turned around slowly, sniffing for the direction of the horses. He chuckled as he caught the scent, shuffled down to the creek, and stood on an oversized boulder at the edge, about thirty feet downstream from Marty.

  “I’ll be quick about it then,” he shouted, and waved to James and Leah, then over at Marty.

  The little half-naked Scot-Indian headed out to capture horses, foodstuffs, and cooking utensils, happy to be of assistance to the fairy people who had rescued him and his father.

  Marty watched the young boy tread lightly, quickly and quietly, down to the streambed. He was both fleet and clever, a credit to his father. He looked back up the ridge and saw his son. Right now, he was weak and hardly able to stand up straight by himself, but wise—and humble—enough to use a stick as a makeshift cane to help prevent a fall. He was also generous. He had given up his safe and secure life, and all the wealth and comforts of the 21st century, to come follow his addlepated grandfather into the wilds of Revolutionary War era North Carolina for no other reason than he had been asked.

  Marty sighed deeply. He wondered if James had found out yet that he was really his father, not his grandfather. He was a very bright boy—man, he corrected himself—but the paths to discovering his true heritage had been cleared of clues and hints for years.

  There were only two people alive who knew the truth since Bruce, the acknowledged and legal father of James, was dead. Bibb had promised not to tell, and he knew that she could be trusted. He snorted. How could she even start to tell him? There was no connection between the two of them. They were on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean, and he couldn’t think of any reason for them to meet either socially or for business. No, he had wiped away any possibility that they would haphazardly become acquainted. Unfortunately, that also meant that telling James the truth of his parentage was going to be all the harder. But he had to tell him, and tell him soon. He had lived the lie for too many years. James deserved to know that he loved him more—if that were even possible—because he was his real, biological, son.

  And he should also know that he had another relative here besides great-uncle-many-times-over Lord Julian Hart.

  How could he even begin to explain why he sent for him? ‘Son, we needed to protect a person—your ancestor—so you will live, rather, be born.’ Marty shook his head like a dog with a bug in his ear. The paradox sounded crazy to him, even inside his head, but James definitely needed to know who this ancestor was. But how in the hell was he to start the topic?

  “Just jump in with both feet like you usually do, Melbourne,” he said under his breath. “No reason to start pussyfooting around now.”

  He gulped in a deep breath for fortitude and approached James, who was awake but prone under the shade tree. “We have to talk,” Marty declared with a feigned sense of bravado.

  James rose onto one elbow and said, “I agree. But I don’t think I know as much as you think I do.”

  Marty winced and shut his eyes, but didn’t say anything. He’d let James finish.

  “I was only able to read the first letter in the bundle. And the map and the note about bringing the IV tools were just email copies that were sent to my phone. I never got to see the originals. If there was something on the back of them or…” He shook his head, eyes closed, apologizing without saying more.

  Marty let out a deep sigh of relief and managed to utter, “Oh.” He was rarely at a loss for words, but right now, he was stumped about how he could—or should—reveal their true biological relationship. He huffed again and looked over at James. His son wasn’t waiting for him to reply, though. He was composing his own thoughts, getting ready to say more.

  “The MacLeods were after the treasure,” James said. “They broke into Leah’s apartment because they thought she had it, but came out empty handed. One of them followed me to the motel and got into my valise while I was out of the room.” James bit his lip, hoping he wouldn’t be asked to go into detail, then sighed and continued. “That’s where they found the letters, in the side pocket. Leah and I had only read the first one; we hadn’t had a chance to look at the others. Eight—that is, Atholl MacLeod the 8th—poisoned his own brother as a diversion to sneak into the room to get them.”

  James’s jaw tightened as he recalled the episode and the frustration he felt when he couldn’t even dial 911. He started to say more, then stopped. Marty didn’t need to know that he and Leah were sharing a room, nor that she was in the shower when that asshole broke in. He snorted, then grinned, glad that the scary story had a happy ending. “The treasure was right there in the bag the whole time, but he didn’t see it.” James patted the bag. “I brought it back with me.”

  “What do you mean ‘it was right there in the bag’?” Marty asked. “What treasure would that be?”

  “The jewels, of course.”

  Neither one of them spoke. Marty shook his head, amazed and dumbfounded. A mischievous grin grew, along a sense of irony.

  “What? That was the treasure you were talking about, wasn’t it?”

  Marty’s head still rattled back and forth. “No,” he said slowly, then stopped to look James in the eye. “You were the treasure.”

  “What? I mean,” he lowered his tone and volume, “what are you talking about?” Wee Ian was probably too far away to hear, but he still didn’t want to appear to be out of control.

  Marty sighed, shifted positions, and proceeded haltingly. “I got caught up in doing genealogy. I mean, the Melbourne line was already well-researched and documented to almost the beginning of time—or so it seemed. The mystery of the Hart break in the family line was fascinating, so I began investigating it. I went—rather, came here—to North Carolina because it was the last place he was known to be alive. I researched the museums and universities and churches and graveyards…” Marty stole a glance at James to see if he understood where the story was going.

  “And you found nothing, so decided to go home and look at those letters to see if there was anything in them, right?” James accused more than asked.

  Marty shrugged with admission of guilt and continued his story. “At first I wasn’t going to, but then…well, yes—I cheated. What can I say? I went back home, debated—argued—with myself about it for nearly a year…” Marty huffed in frustration, “but I couldn’t stand the temptation. I was weak and curious and bored. I read them—read them all—and then was back on the plane to North Carolina within days. There really was something in those, for me, for
us. But only a small part of it related to Lord Julian.

  “That second time, my friend helped me with the research. While we were working on it, we found a story—more a legend than written word—in this friend’s history about an ancestor who was saved by a fairy. It wasn’t Great-uncle Julian—he was in my friend’s family line, too, but indirectly—but it was all so fascinating that I didn’t want to stop the research.

  “Yes, I got distracted.” Marty rolled his eyes—James knew that it happened to him frequently, too. “The legend was about a fairy who put his blood into a warrior’s father’s father’s body and saved his life. It never said how many generations were involved, but my friend and I did more investigating and traced it back to this time, the time when Evie was here.

  “You see, Evie—the woman who had written the letters—would be considered a fairy, so I thought maybe she had something to do with this. By the way, there are tales of fairies as far back as lore goes. Fairies—that’s the name they gave to people who just showed up without explanation, in strange clothes, speaking strange dialects—time travelers. Well, fairies and witches. The witches were the ones who weren’t smart enough to shut up and adapt, but kept insisting…well, you get the picture.”

  James nodded. Yes, he got the picture. The only Lisa Sinclaire book he had read explained it well enough. And now he and Leah were here as fairies; and his father, Marty; and Leah’s mother, Dani—or Evie, as she liked to be called—were, too.

  “So, I think my friend’s ancestor needed a blood transfusion to survive, and well, I wanted to make sure he got it, so I sent you the map and the note.”

  “Yes, how did you do that?” James asked.

  “Well, I had seen the ‘Back to the Future’ movies where Professor Brown sent Marty,” he winked at saying the name, “a letter because he knew where he would be on a certain date. I was sure you would be in London for your birthday, so did some creative mailing and forwarding, and yes, I even used Western Union at one point. You obviously got the letter or you wouldn’t be here with the IV equipment.” Marty looked pensive then added, “But I sure didn’t see Leah coming. I guess everything isn’t foretold or predestined.”

  “Yeah, well, the letter almost didn’t get to me. By all rights, it should have been intercepted, but fate—no, God—was still in control. If it is meant to be, He will make sure there’s a way to get it done. If I hadn’t brought the IV tools, either Ian would have not been hatcheted or would have survived regardless of the transfusion…or maybe another fairy would have shown up and done the deed.”

  “So, it looks like Ian will live...” Marty looked around nervously, then changed the subject quickly and awkwardly. “I wonder what time the moon comes up.”

  “What the…?” James started to ask what was going on, but clamped off the question as soon as he realized what it was. He looked over at Leah and saw that she had figured it out at the same time. Or had read his mind, or whatever—it didn’t make a difference. They both knew why Marty was uncomfortable. The truth was so close, but he wasn’t ready yet to admit that there was a genetic connection between Ian and James.

  Now is as good a time as ever to let him know that I know. James sat up straight and cleared his throat. “So I’m the treasure and Ian is my ancestor, right?” He focused on Marty, eyes narrowed, letting him know that he was on to him. “And therefore, Bibb’s, too.”

  James and Leah giggled at the wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression on Marty’s face. The old man had been found out and hadn’t seen it coming.

  “Leah said she was my daughter-in-law,” he mumbled in recollection. “You knew?” he asked haltingly, “You know that I’m your father?”

  James nodded and grinned broadly, but sobered up quickly when he remembered there was still another family member he had to talk to Marty about. “And yes, I know Bibb’s my real mother,” he said plainly, then shook his head to rearrange his thoughts. Yes, I know Bibb’s my mother, but you need to know that you have another son. But that subject will have to wait, or you’ll never tell me why you sent for me. “Please, continue your story.”

  Marty tipped his head in a tacit apology, wondered for a quick moment how James had found out, then continued. “Bibb’s got a lot of Cherokee blood in her. That’s where you get those high cheekbones and ruddy complexion. Anyhow, I asked her about it when I went back to visit when you were six. That was the one time I insisted Bruce stick around and spend some time with you. Anyway, Bibb and I went to the Cherokee Reservation and did research together. I’m not sure how excited she really was about researching her heritage, but she liked spending time with me. Shoot, she’d have been happy to dig through dung piles with me.”

  Marty’s contented, glassy-eyed half-grin of recalling the conjugal times spent with Bibb evaporated when he saw James frowning, looking down his nose at him, giving him a non-verbal scolding to get on with the story.

  He sputtered, “But it wasn’t on paper—what we were looking for—so we went and talked to the elders. They were the ones in charge of keeping the tribe’s history, but that part wasn’t written; it was an oral history, a family’s story not in any book. For the life of me, I can’t remember the old woman’s name, but she was a distant relative of Bibb’s. They both had old Colonel Parks as an ancestor. He was one of the good American soldiers on the Trail of Tears.” Marty noticed James was frowning at him again, so stopped rambling.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll try to focus. Bottom line, Bibb—and therefore, you—wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the fairy who put his blood in Ian Kincaid, also known as Star Walker, because he was the father of Scout Kincaid who married a Janie or Junie or Genevieve Pomeroy-Hart. And they are your great-great-grandparents, however so many times over.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence. Neither James nor Leah commented on the revelation. Everyone looked at each other, and then Leah spoke up.

  “Mom’s name is Pomeroy-Hart, and as you know, she had triplets. Wee Ian just told us that Ian was the biological father of them, that they are his siblings. So far, the only children with Ian Kincaid’s blood are her three and Wee Ian. And since he’s now incapable of siring more children… Shoot, I’m sure those four didn’t, or won’t, intermarry or breed. I mean, they were, are, siblings, after all. And I’m not even sure if one of the triplets is a girl. There is no Scout Kincaid, and because of Ian’s injury, he won’t be able to sire any more children. Something is wrong with this scenario, or James wouldn’t be here. I…I…I don’t think we needed to come.”

  “Yes, we did,” James said adamantly. “No matter what this story about a Scout Kincaid and a girl by the name of Pomeroy-Hart has to do with me, we are still, God willing, going to see your mother. And remember, except for that one relative back in Greensboro,” James glanced over and winked at Leah—he’d let his father think he was referring to Bibb—“we don’t have other family anywhere except for your mother and,” James grinned and nodded acknowledgment, “my father.”

  Leah squinted her eyes and almost glared at James, backing off just enough not to be seen as mean or rude. “Oh, shit,” her husband moaned softly when he realized the reason for her expression.

  “Is Bibb okay?” Marty asked, the look of concern changing quickly to one of fear. Was there something wrong with that one relative back in Greensboro?

  James closed his eyes, but before he could speak, Leah answered, sparing him the discomfort she knew he was feeling. “Yes and no,” she replied, then quickly added, “She was attacked by Asshole MacLeod the 9th, but was recovering just fine when we left.” Leah looked at Marty and saw he was biting his bottom lip, waiting for her to finish her explanation. “And no, because she has cancer—liver cancer.”

  “Is that a type of cancer the doctors can treat? Does she need a donor? Couldn’t you help her? Is she going to be okay? Should I go back? Well, tell me!” Marty was practically—actually was—screaming by the time his questions were finished, his eyes wide in frustration with, and anger at, James
for leaving Bibb when she was ill.

  “Sit down, will you?” James suggested sternly, then added, “Sir.” He wasn’t sure how to address his father yet. Dad didn’t feel right, but he didn’t want to be disrespectful to him, no matter what the circumstances.

  “Hmph!” Marty snorted, but sat down and was mute for about two whole seconds. “Well, spit it out, son,” he grumbled, then added, “Damn, that feels good to say, knowing that you know and…well…” Marty shook his head gently, then said softly, “Go ahead, I’ll try to calm down and not interrupt.”

  “The cancer is treatable and she has an excellent chance of recovery. As far as going back to see her, yes, I think you should. You two have spent too much time apart, and it’s obvious to me,” James tipped his head to Leah, “and to my wife that you both care about each other. But there’s something else you need to know, and it’s another reason why you should go back.”

  James looked up to make sure that Marty was going to be able to comprehend—or accept—what he had to say next.

  “Well, get on with it! I’m listening.” Marty’s back was board straight, as if he slouched or relaxed in the least, his powers of hearing would be compromised.

  “You see, the reason she’s going to be fine is that there’s another donor for her. Actually, he’s a better match than I am for the liver transplant.”

  “Bibb m...m…married?” Marty babbled in shock. “I mean, yes, I didn’t talk to her as much as I should have, but I’m sure she would have told me if she had met someone else, and they got married and had a child together. Or didn’t get married,” Marty rolled his eyes and continued, “and still had a child. I never saw one around last time I saw her, and that was only three years ago.”

  Wrinkles and scowls of fear, hurt, and pain all rolled into one horrid emotion covering Marty’s face—and it looked as if it was getting ready to be swamped with saline. His eyes were brimming with tears at the lost romance, the failed relationship that was his fault because he didn’t want to have an American wife.