by Martha Carr
“Done. Here’s hoping a t-shirt, sweater, Texas-style winter coat will work long enough to grab Bill Somers and beam him up, Bert.”
She went back to the bedroom to check on the troll. He was digging down into her suitcase, about to bite down on a shoe. She pulled him away and dropped him on the bed, shaking a finger at him. He shook one back at her, smiling.
“It’s going to be really hard to figure out how to discipline you if I can’t get even a little angry. You’d just blow up like a Macy’s parade balloon,” she said, zipping up the suitcase.
She held up the pair of blue cotton underwear Yumfuck had been using for a nest and the distinctive odor of beef jerky wafted to her nose. “Oh no,” she said, tossing them toward a trash can. “We’re starting over. She dug for the back of the drawer where the old underwear was stashed and pulled out a green pair with yellow polka dots that came in an eight-pack from Target. “Never knew what to do with these, didn’t want to throw them away, but I sure didn’t think this would be the reason I’d need them” she said, scooping up the troll and sliding him back into her pocket. “I’m gonna have to buy more underwear if this keeps up.”
She pulled the suitcase off the bed and headed for the door. “Okay, we’re off to see the fucking wizard. Hopefully, before he actually becomes one.”
Out on the patio, Craig and another of the regulars, Paul, were eating nachos and drinking beer. There was no sign of Estelle.
“Leira!” they called in unison, laughing. “Come join us! We’re starting a new tradition. Happy hour starts right after lunch.”
“Hey, what’s with the suitcase?” asked Paul, glancing up from the guacamole he was loading on a tortilla chip. The chip broke under the weight.
“It’s not a spoon, dude,” said Craig. “Show a little restraint.”
“Pay attention. Leira’s got a suitcase. We’ve been parking ourselves here for a few years. This is a new behavior in the wild. You okay?”
“Taking a road trip to Chicago. Nothing’s wrong, it’s all good.” If you can call chasing the killer of an elven prince, all good, she thought.
“Road trip!” Craig pumped his fist in the air.
“How are you two planning to get this new happy hour off the ground and keep your jobs?” asked Leira, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.
“Joy of being a pharmaceutical salesman,” Craig replied. “It’s Thursday, which all of my customers, the good doctors, call Friday Eve. They’re already on the golf courses by now. Might as well come see Estelle.”
“I took a half day,” said Paul, smiling. “Marketing musicians in Austin is a tough gig, trust me. Live music capital of the world means there’s a lot of competition. Needed a break.”
“He’s only planning to tap in to the new happy hour every once in a while. Don’t worry, others will come,” he said, patting the seat next to him. “Come on, join us for a minute.”
“You hear Diana got that gig at Banger’s just down the street from here? She’s playing with her new band this weekend,” said Paul.
“’Fraid I’ll have to miss that. Take some video and send it to me,” said Leira.
“I can bring Peanuts with me,” said Craig.
“I know dogs are welcome there but wasn’t Peanuts banned for nipping at someone?” asked Leira.
“On probation and it was more of an enthusiastic bite of their hotdog. If he hadn’t knocked over their beer no one would have mentioned it. I bought a round for the table,” said Craig, taking a big gulp from a Shiner Bock. “Almost drove me nuts waiting for them to figure out what they wanted.”
“Over a hundred beers on tap will do that to some. Amateurs,” said Paul. “Stick with the proven,” he said, chasing a hot pepper around the nearly-empty plate with a chip. He used his finger to scoot it on and popped it in his mouth.
“I have to go,” said Leira, “but take it easy on the nachos. It’s still early. You guys need to pace yourselves. Everybody else won’t be here for hours.”
“Hey, you gonna be back in time for bowling night?” asked Craig, as he swiveled around and got up off his stool.
“I know you’re not about to try and carry my suitcase for me,” Leira said, staring him down. “I’m a detective, Craig. I got this.”
“Hey, I was born and raised in Texas. Have to offer, every time. My momma would roll over in her kitchen, if she knew.”
“Just feel it, sitting in her kitchen, huh?” laughed Paul.
“Be there for the bowling!” said Craig, as Leira picked up her suitcase.
“Can’t make tonight. Will do my best for next week. I told you, with my schedule I can only be a floater.”
“Playoffs start tonight! Semi-finals next week. Still good timing,” he said. “Can we hug you?” he asked, getting back off his barstool.
Leira smiled and opened the gate.
“Like a creepy uncle hug,” said Paul, slapping Craig on the back. “Come on, you can buy the next round. I’ll let you.”
Leira could hear their laughter as she worked her way around the side of the house. “Ladies and gentlemen, my family,” she said, smiling again. She threw the suitcase on the backseat and shut the door, getting down on her hands and knees to look under the car.
“I know you’re under there. Let’s not start this relationship on a dishonest note. Come on, Bert, show yourself.”
A violet fireball the size of a softball slipped from between the engine parts, squeezing itself into a teardrop shape as it squeezed out, then rolled back into a perfect ball and bobbed just at the top of the front tires.
“So, this is direct dial,” she said, “and you can hear me in real time. I suppose magic is like that.”
She looked at the ball, the light turning over and over inside the pulsing violet sphere, and she slowly reached out to touch it, to see if it was warm. Curiosity was always leading her down some strange and dangerous alleys.
As her fingers got close she braced herself for scalding heat or a zap of electricity.
The pulsing light was warm on her skin and her fingers pushed easily past the membrane of the fireball. A cool, thin violet line shot up her arm, through her shoulder and out of her eyes, making them glow for just a moment. She opened her mouth and a puff of cold air emerged in the heat, quickly disappearing.
It all felt vaguely familiar, like a memory from a long time ago.
She wanted to leave her hand there and see what else might happen but the light pulled back, staying just an inch or two away from her fingertips.
Her eyes glowed again, the light flickering in them, and she distinctly heard a voice say, “Get out of here.” She rocked back on her heels, shaking violently, gripping the side of the car. It was a voice she hadn’t heard in years and barely recognized. Her mother, Eireka Berens was telling her to run.
She took a deep breath. The troll screamed from inside of her pocket. “How did you do that from inside of a psych ward?” she wondered, watching the fireball fade and disappear.
She got in the car fast before anyone came to see if there was a problem. How the hell could she explain this.
“You may not know this about me, but I don’t run from a goddamn thing, Mom,” she said as she drove off, the tires squealing. She made a point of keeping her eyes off the rearview mirror. The tips of her fingers still hummed and her nails had turned violet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Correk was sitting in his chambers at the top of the castle. A small room with just a bed and a nightstand but it served its purpose. He chose the smaller quarters mostly because of the glass cupola that stood in as its ceiling, giving Correk a panoramic view for miles, even when the castle could be seen hanging in the sky.
He was trying to decide if he should tell anyone else what had just happened. He saw the icy fire that had spread up Leira Berens’ arm. Her eyes glowing. Something had changed.
“That is impossible,” he said, trying to make sense of it. “She can’t be…We would have known.”
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br /> A passenger pigeon fluttered outside the window at a small pane at the bottom, waiting for it to be cranked open. Even though the window was at present invisible to most creatures, birds in Oriceran could navigate the castle with ease.
“Hello Palmer,” said Correk, holding out his arm for the bird to land and Correk pulled him inside. The iridescent brown feathers around its neck sparkled in the sunlight.
“You have some mail for me?”
The bird dropped the postcard in Correk’s other hand. It was trimmed in silver and had the crimson stamp of the prophets. It was embossed with the word, Post Office in the center. It morphed into a ball of wiggling worms. He held it out to Palmer who made a quick meal of them, cooing as he finished them.
Correk eased Palmer out the window and watched for a moment as the bird flew away. He made his way to the side of the building and held out an arm and fiery symbols appeared on his hand.
“Altrea Extendia,” he said, and the bronze staircase appeared. He took the steps two at a time, used to the long trek, passing several others on shorter suspended staircases that only went from one floor to the next.
Druina, the teacher who had the unfortunate task of trying to educate young Eltor, was on a silver staircase carrying her marking book. Correk could see that it was locked and a thorny vine wrapped around it.
“Correk, rushing off? Don’t forget you promised to come and speak to the class next week,” she reminded him. He waved and kept hurrying downward.
A postcard invitation from the prophets could not be ignored or even put off till later.
There were several other passenger pigeons leaving the castle, finishing up the afternoon mail drop, and flying back to the post office. The birds were kept by the gargoyles who operated a mail system out of an old apothecary that had once served the Atlanteans who had emigrated to Oriceran thousands of years ago.
Correk made his way across the open pasture and past the royal gardens and headed down the mossy path toward the post office on the far side of the Light Elves kingdom. Giant oaks that had been allowed to flourish for hundreds of years hung their heavy, leafy branches over the path, dappling the sunlight. Trolls jumped in and out of the large twisted roots where they were known to build nests, and a cloud of red and orange pinching bees swirled around a branch high over his head, building a hive.
He could see the post office in the distance. The imposing building rose high out of the mist. The gargoyles had never seen the need to hide the building. Everyone already knew where the building was.
It was built out of pale yellow stone from a nearby quarry that was now a fresh water swimming hole used by children and stocked with fish, including a mislabeled tadpole that had grown into a hundred-foot lizard that kept mostly to itself at the very bottom, hundreds of feet below.
Correk liked to go there and sit under the ancient elms when he needed a quiet place to think.
It was easy to convert the building into a post office once the potion books were transferred to the gnomes’ vault at the back of the library and the medicinal herbs were carefully moved to a secret location.
The one-room building stretched upward for a thousand feet and was a perfect square, each wall was five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet.
As Correk entered the vast building he took a moment to look up at the crested gargoyles carrying out their duties, sorting thousands of pieces of mail in a moment. There were hundreds of them flying around in the center of the building without ever having a collision.
Nimble workers opened and shut thousands of drawers that stretched from floor to ceiling.
The walls of the post office were covered with wooden boxes of every size that were created from the enchanted part of the forest, each with a narrow brass handle.
Every box had once held one of the thousands of ingredients the Atlanteans used for their magic. Many of them were either forgotten or kept secret by the gnomes in the library.
The crested gargoyles were highly prized for their work ethic and their ability to focus on a task. No bigger than a gnome, their bodies were covered in oversized gold scales that rippled as they moved, claws on their back legs and ended in a tail with a razor-sharp point. Their heads flaunted a deep black crest that ran to the base of their tails.
The bottom boxes were rented out to different elven societies and some dwarves, while the vast array of boxes that hovered higher up were used by the prophets for official business. They never clarified what that meant and weren’t about to start.
Correk passed the large bronze plaque that read, ‘Dedicated to the memory of Tessa, the mother of the Word. Etched in the bronze was an elderly blind woman with children gathered around her.
He glanced at the plaque as the bronze woman moved around in her seat and the children at her feet squirmed. A small girl looked directly at him, holding his gaze for a moment. The art enchantment spell was one of his least favorite. Too lifelike, he thought as he shuddered and hurried through the building.
A group of schoolchildren were gathered near the entrance with their teacher, listening to a Wood Elf explain the history of the post office and the seer, Tessa, depicted in the plaque. One of the boys was sticking out his tongue at the plaque, trying to make someone in the magical depiction grimace back at him.
Correk smiled, waiting for the trick that someone had cast over the plaque.
A small bronze boy turned and looked at the child standing in front of the plaque, his tongue sticking out, crossing his eyes. He laughed when he saw someone looking back at him.
The figure in bronze hooked his finger and beckoned at the child to come closer. He leaned in and the head of the boy in the plaque turned into a timber howler, the hairy apes that lived in the trees. The head grew in size until it was larger than the child in front of him and stuck out of the plaque, opening its wide mouth, jagged teeth shining in the light, giving its signature howl.
The elven school boy fainted dead away, hitting the marble floor with a loud thud.
“That should cure him of any more pranks,” said Correk.
“I remember when you had the very same trick played on you, Correk.” It was his old teacher of basic elven magic, Lucenda. As was the custom for elves, no one took a last name. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone knew what tribe they belonged to and didn’t need a reminder.
“I had a headache for a week.”
“Nonsense,” said Lucenda, waiting for the boy to get back on his feet. She adjusted the voluminous blue robes around her short, stout body. Her long silver hair was tied back in a neat braid rolled into a bun.
“Sorry,” the boy said when he came to, rubbing the back of his head.
Lucenda gave a satisfied, “Hmph,” and waved her hand over his head, her eyes glowing, turning a brighter blue. “Portasus,” she said, and the top of the boy’s head glowed briefly. It was the most basic healing spell.
“I hope you’ve learned something about respect for your elders,” she said. He nodded earnestly at her. “I don’t mean me. For Tessa, or her formal name, Teressa Doe. Go on, go back to the group.”
The Wood Elf waited till the child was back with the group before going on with the tour. All the while, the two irises of each eye were scanning the room, keeping track of everyone.
“They really make the best teachers,” said Lucenda. “Never miss a thing.”
“I don’t remember you healing my head. You made me wait it out.”
“You had a harder head,” she said. “What brings you to the post office?”
“I got a postcard. The prophets want to see me.”
“A silver postcard? Official business, very important. Then I won’t keep you,” she said, turning and patting the plaque. “Such a wonderful role model for everyone. So selfless.”
The same small bronze boy turned and gave her a raspberry, sticking out his tongue.
“Cheeky!” said Lucenda, annoyed, marched back to the school group. “Should really get someone to remove that spell. It’s j
ust magical graffiti, I tell you.”
Every elven child was taught in school about the seer, Tessa who spoke in quatrains, predicting the future. Four-line riddles that were scribbled down by the gnomes and then left to the interpretation of the prophets. Her predictions that talked about every aspect of Oriceran life for thousands of years to come were considered the foundation of the system that kept everything running smoothly. So many of them had already turned out to be true.
The plaque was created upon her death, well over a century ago. Her death was also shrouded in secrecy.
Frankly, no one asked much when it came to the inner workings of Oriceran. So much of it was hidden and dealt with by the prophets. After enough time passed, everyone took the system for granted.
The prophets were from every society on Oriceran. The movement started even before the death of the seer, interpreting the quatrains as she produced them despite her protests. After her death and the last of the quatrains were discovered, the interpretations only became more complicated. The last quatrain convinced the group that once the gates began to reopen the magic energy, the very life force of Oriceran would drain away to Earth, eventually ending in a cataclysmic explosion. Oriceran would cease to be.
They spent their days getting ready for the Gold year, sounding warnings, and working on ways to save as much of the living things on Oriceran as possible by moving them to Earth.
The two-seat trolley that ran on the tracks that wove through the building, arrived with just one metal car. A crested gargoyle opened the gate and beckoned to Correk to take a seat.
“Hurry it up,” it squawked. “Make sure all hands and feet stay inside of the car. We won’t go back for missing parts.”
The gargoyle rang a bell and gave the car a push as it took off. The steel tires squealed against the rails unrolling in front of the car and rolling up behind it. Seconds later, Correk found himself at the back of the building.
He got out just as another gargoyle gave the empty seat a push, sending the trolley speeding up the wall off to another destination. Correk looked up, wondering who could be up at the top of the building that would need a ride back down.
