by Layla Lawlor
I said good night to Fresca too and went up to my room. Although I was exhausted, I tried calling Muirin one more time, then sat on my bed, staring at my phone. I shouldn't worry about her, since a woman who was at least two thousand years old could take care of herself. She'd call me in the morning and I'd feel stupid for bothering her, as usual.
But ... now what? Call Seth? Millie? I rubbed my aching eyes. This morning I'd been cheerful and optimistic; I'd had the sword and new friends and a sense of purpose.
Now the sword was gone, and Muirin might well be, and I didn't know who to trust.
Chapter 14
I slept until early afternoon and woke to find an email from "vwheelock." There had been so much going on lately that I had to read the email to remember my attempt earlier in the week to contact the folklorist. The message was short, an apology for not getting back to me sooner and a request to meet for coffee. I sent her a quick email back; the reply came in minutes. We arranged to meet at a coffee shop downtown. No one else was around in the house—Drew couldn't manifest in the daytime, and my grandma and Fresca seemed to have gone out somewhere. I fed the cat and let myself out, forgetting about the broken doorknob once again until it spun loosely in my hand. I really needed to fix that.
The day was hot and muggy, the sky hazy with threatening clouds on the horizon. I expected Valerie Wheelock to be faculty, but the person who waved to me from a stool by the coffee shop window had to be a grad student; she was only a year or two older than me. She was dark, round, and pretty in capri pants and a T-shirt with a shamrock on it.
"You must be Kay." Her grip was firm, her smile bright and friendly. "I'm Val."
"Thank you for agreeing to meet me," I said.
"Well, your email intrigued me. You said you were researching Cayuga mythology?"
"That's right." I decided to go out on a limb. She looked like she had Native American ancestry. "Are you Cayuga yourself?"
"Seneca, actually. Onondowagah. What kind of research project did you say you're doing?"
"It's actually a personal issue. I saw something that I don't believe can be explained rationally, and I think it might be, um, local. I'd like to ask you about it."
I had half-expected her to walk out at that point, but instead she hooked her thumbs through the belt straps of her jeans and studied me curiously. "What did you see?"
"Little people," I said. "About yea high ..." I held my hand about two feet off the ground. "They looked Native American to me. You know, their features and clothes and whatnot."
She'd gone guarded and wary. I knew that look; I'd encountered it often enough by now. She was trying to figure out how much I knew, and how much to tell me. "Where did you see them?" she asked.
"In a field south of here, off the highway."
Val pondered. She was one of those people with expressive, mobile features, whose feelings display no matter how guarded they try to be. "Can we take our coffee outside?" she said at last.
While we strolled down the sidewalk, sipping our lattes, she sidled up sideways to the topic by chatting about her work at the university. She was a graduate student in the anthropology department, specializing in indigenous history and oral transmission of stories in the Finger Lakes area. "For me, I guess it's a particular kind of activism, if a quiet kind. It's a matter of telling our stories in our own voice, rather than having them told for us."
"That makes sense to me," I said.
"One of the big issues is that not all stories are meant for an outside audience. As someone who's within the culture as well as studying it from the outside, I suppose I act as a kind of gatekeeper—"
If she noticed my slight flinch at the word, she didn't react.
"—between our sacred stories and the outside world that wants to look in on them. It's a living culture, you know, not an exhibit in a zoo."
I couldn't figure out whether I was being gently rebuked or not. "I'm sorry if I gave that impression."
"Oh, no, not at all. I'm just trying to explain why it may be difficult for me to answer your questions in as much detail as you'd like." We reached the Creek Walk, a bike path and walking trail through downtown Ithaca, and Val rested her coffee cup on the railing overlooking the creek. "You asked about the little people. I think you're talking about drum dancers."
My heart beat faster; I leaned closer to her. "What are they?"
Val pressed her fingertips to her lips, looking down at the creek rushing over a bed of stones below us. "See, here's the thing. If most people asked that question, I'd tell them a few things about the story, and point them to some books to read. It's been recorded in a number of places, so, you know, the cat's out of the bag there. But ... that's not how you asked me. You said you've seen them." She looked up at me. Like most women, she was shorter than me, though not as short as Muirin and Fresca, neither of whom were much above five feet; at five-nine, I towered over both of them. "Do you mean that?" she asked me quietly. "You really did see them?"
"I did. They were sitting on a tree stump. One of them threw some shotgun pellets at me." I touched my face reflexively. "I had bruises for days."
Val chewed her lower lip; then she said, "I've never seen them, myself. But I know people who have—or heard them, usually. Mostly older people. You won't get them to talk to you about it. Don't even try. It's a very private experience. And people say that discussing them is a bad idea in any case, because you don't want to get their attention on you."
"They're not—evil, or anything, are they?" I still remembered the feeling of safety and comfort that I had every time I went to the clearing where I had seen them, like it was a protected place. I could certainly believe they would protect themselves; they had thrown shotgun pellets at me because Fresca and I had been shooting up an old tree stump on their land, which was in retrospect a pretty rude thing to do. But they didn't seem actively malicious.
"No," Val said. "Most of the stories I've heard speak of them helping people. But they can be very dangerous if they're not treated properly. They appreciate gifts."
"Tobacco," I said. That was what Muirin had told me.
Val gave me a surprised look. "Yeah, it's a common present for spirit people around here. Traditionally speaking, that is. Fingernail clippings are another thing they are said to like, for use in their magic. Now, I'd like to ask you a question, if you don't mind."
"Go ahead."
"Why you?" Val asked, tilting her head to the side. "I don't mean to be rude; I'm just curious. They don't like to show themselves to humans. You weren't raised with the stories; you didn't even know what you were looking at. Yet you saw them. I wonder if you have any idea why."
How much to tell her about the Gatekeepers? "I see things others don't," I said. "I always have. And I'm, uh, involved with a group of people that gets involved with that kind of thing."
Val made an "mmm" noise. There was a long silence. It seemed as if she was, once again, trying to decide how much to share with me.
"You should come over for dinner sometime," she said at last. "I think my brother and his wife would like to meet you."
"I have a lot going on right now." To put it mildly. "I can't make a commitment for anytime soon."
She scribbled on the back of a business card. "Well, here's my number. Call me when you have time. The offer is always open."
When I got home in a warm, humid evening, Fresca and my grandmother were sitting on the edge of the porch, with a plate of misshapen cookies, sitting on top of our household toolbox. Fresca was a stress baker. Her heart was in the right place, even if all the ingredients for her recipes sometimes weren't.
And Creiddylad was sprawled at the foot of the porch steps. As I approached she raised her head, looking around alertly, as if to say, See, boss? Wasn't slacking off at all!
"Hello, sweetheart," my grandmother said. "We fixed the door."
"Your grandma is actually very good at putting together a doorknob," Fresca said.
"Thanks, guys. Sorry. I
was going to do something about that, I swear." I crouched to let Creiddylad sniff my hand and then petted her. "I see we have a guest."
Fresca tossed the dog half a cookie. "She showed up and wouldn't go home."
"Maybe because you're feeding her?"
Fresca laughed, almost like she used to laugh.
"I shouldn't talk; I fed her the other night too," I admitted. "Her name's Creiddylad, by the way."
"Her name is who the what now?"
"Cry-thu-lad," I enunciated carefully, trying to say it like Gwyn did. Creiddylad thumped her tail at the sound of her name. "She kinda belongs to a kinda friend of mine."
Fresca lay down on the porch and reached down to scratch behind Creiddylad's red-brown ears. "And ... are you planning to call your kinda-friend and tell him that his dog is over at our place?"
"I'm not actually sure where he is," I said. "Or what he is."
"Oh, one of those friends."
I sat on the top step and accepted a cookie, as well as a paper cup of something dark purple that, when I sniffed it, turned out to be Kool-Aid laced with a little bit of wine. "So what are you two talking about?"
"A lot of very interesting things," Geraldine said.
"I told her," Fresca said. Her jaw was set, stubborn and mulish, and her gaze skittered away from mine. "I told her everything."
"You mean—everything everything?"
"Yes, everything. The roommates, Muirin, the invisible sword, all your new friends down in New York. I know you don't like telling people things, but it's not normal to keep everything about your life a secret." I noticed for the first time that her face was tracked with dried tears, as if she'd been crying as she talked with Geraldine.
"It's not that I don't want to. I can't just tell everyone everything; people will ..." I trailed off.
"Judge you?" my grandmother said gently.
"I was thinking more like commit me."
"Anyone who walks outside the lockstep of society is called insane." Geraldine poured herself more spiked Kool-Aid from the Mason jar on the steps. "I never let it bother me. I'd rather be thought strange than squeeze myself into a tiny box until I grow into its shape like a bonsai kitten."
Grandmothers weren't supposed to know about ancient Internet memes of questionable taste. "Yeah, but there's a difference between, like, not wearing a bra, and trying to tell people that fairies and monsters are real." My face heated. "Not that I'm saying you didn't wear—"
"I was jailed, dear. I have had rocks thrown at me, and tear gas, and guns put in my face. I was chased by men with knives." She said these things casually, as if it was a matter of no consequence. "And yes, I chose that life, sometimes to make the world a better place, sometimes merely because I wanted to see what was over the next hill in spite of the No Trespassing sign. But you mustn't think you're the only person in the world who's ever faced danger or held a secret."
"I don't, it's just—" I stopped, and sighed. I'd forgotten what arguing with Grandma Geraldine was like. It was like getting into a pillow fight except the pillows had lead weights inside. "So ... what did you think? About what Fresca told you, I mean."
Fresca herself had gone quiet, drawing her feet up onto the porch so that she could wrap her arms around them. This was recent, too, this silence and stillness in her. She'd always been so vibrant and alive.
Geraldine tapped her fingers on the paper cup in her hand. "It's a lot to take in," she said at last, and smiled. "Then again, you do have a ghost living in your house."
My breath rushed out of me in a little laugh. "Okay, true."
"I've seen a lot of things in my life that I can't explain. The world is full of wonder and mystery, Kay. Now I know a few more of its wonders and its mysteries."
"Yeah, those." I drank a little wine-flavored Kool-Aid, ate half a cookie. "While we're being honest, there are a few things I haven't talked about. Even with you, Fresca."
"Shock," Fresca said dryly, but she didn't get up to leave.
"Hey, I was trying to back off. But I'm ready to talk now, if you want to listen."
Fresca nodded wordlessly.
"Although first," Geraldine said, "perhaps we might consider something for dinner other than cookies."
We ordered pizza and while we waited, I filled them in on the missing pieces of the last week. At this point I couldn't remember what I'd told Fresca and what I hadn't, so I tried to cover everything. I started with meeting Lily-Bell and Creiddylad in the ruins of the abandoned house, which then led to explaining about Shadows and what Lily-Bell really was. Grandma had gone very still by this point.
"It was really her? My mother?" She said it in a tone I had never heard from Grandma. It made her sound young, almost like a child.
"It was, and it wasn't. I mean ... look let me tell you the rest of it." So I went on with my story, telling them about the Harlem Renaissance, losing the sword, and losing touch with Muirin.
"You really don't have it anymore?" Fresca asked, and I shook my head. "Well ... is that such a bad thing? I mean, maybe it's in a better place now. Maybe Muirin repossessed it and you'll never see her or it again."
"I don't think Muirin would break into my car and steal it. She's odd, and she has her own ways of doing things, and she keeps a lot of secrets. But there's no reason why she'd do that. Anyway, it's still bonded to me, so even if she took it, she hasn't found another user yet. I can still feel it."
Fresca shivered. "But you can't tell where it is?"
"No." I closed my eyes and focused for a moment. The feeling was still just as vague, perhaps slightly weaker than it had been, but it was hard to tell. "Just that it's far."
The pizza delivery driver pulled into the yard, prompting a necessary break in the conversation. Grandma Geraldine was still unusually quiet, and when Fresca went inside to get paper plates, I patted her arm. "Are you okay?"
"I suppose so." She shook her head. "My mother, Kay. I'd give anything to be able to talk to her."
Fresca came back just in time to overhear this. "Seriously? Didn't you hear any of that stuff Kay said about Tigers and people getting killed?"
"I already know the world is dangerous," Geraldine said. "My mother died when I was eight years old. Do you know what that would mean, to have the chance to see her again? Besides, the place you've described ... just to see it ..."
Creiddylad stared up at me hopefully, so I blew on a slice of pizza and set it on the gravel in front of her snout. It was gone in two quick gulps. If she kept hanging around, I was going to have to buy dog food. A steady diet of junk food couldn't be good for her.
"I don't think anyone would stop me from taking you there," I said. "Taliesin and Millie never gave me the idea there was anything wrong with me bringing people back to Shadow New York myself. But I have to find the sword first. Or at least figure out where it's gone."
"You know what I think?" Fresca said, through a mouthful of pizza. "I think you're doing what you always do, Kay. Keeping secrets and trying to solve things on your own when you have a good chance of ending the whole mess if you just pick up a phone and let your friends help."
"I do not do that," I said stiffly.
"Oh really? So why don't you call this Irmingard and Millie, and ask them what they know about Muirin and the sword? Maybe they can tell you that Muirin took the sword and scarpered off to Ireland, so you can stop worrying."
"I can't."
"Why?" Fresca challenged me. My grandmother watched us both; even Creiddylad had raised her head to regard us with her dark eyes.
"Because maybe they stole the sword, did you ever think of that?"
I couldn't read the look that Fresca gave me. There was pity and something else. "Do you like them? Do you think they'd do something like that? They're either your friends or they're not. Pick a side and stick to it."
"I'm not good at reading people," I said helplessly. "Besides, they're—The usual rules don't apply, Fres. It's not that simple." Millie had told me the Gatekeepers didn't fit i
nto neat little boxes, and I was starting to see what she meant. I could easily imagine Millie being my friend and yet stealing the sword for some Gatekeeper purpose that had nothing to do with me.
It was like being back in high school, surrounded by confusing social undercurrents, and the only coping skill I'd ever learned was to keep my head down and try to fit in.
"You're a fence-sitter, Kay," Fresca said.
"No, I'm not!" I snapped. "What is this, an intervention? Grandma, help."
"I am not getting in the middle of this," my grandmother said. "I think you know your friends best. However, they are also best placed to answer your questions. Or ..." she added, "we could ask my mother. From what you've said, she's deeply involved in at least some of this."
"You're only saying that because you want to go to Shadow New York and meet her," I accused her.
Geraldine's eyes sparkled like a girl's. "Perhaps."
Fresca got up quietly and went into the house.
I rested my head in my slightly greasy hands and then looked at my grandmother. "Did I do something wrong?"
"Honey, you know I love you, but I can't tell you that. You know Fresca much better than I do."
I was no longer sure of that. Maybe neither of us had ever really known each other at all.
"Do you really want to go to Shadow New York, Grandma?"
"I would love to."
"How about this," I said, fondling the soft, matted fur of Creiddylad's ears. She tolerated it with a long-suffering expression. "I'm working a late shift at the campus bookstore tomorrow, so I have most of the day free. Let's get up early, take Lily-Bell's key and go see if we can find that old house again. I'm not necessarily suggesting that we go exploring Shadow New York—I have to be to work by three—but at least we can see if it's possible to avoid a four-hour drive to get there."
"Good," Geraldine said. "I like it. Now, my suggestion would be that if you want your friend's help tomorrow, you ought to go apologize tonight."
"Why should I apologize? She was the one who—"
