Magical Stew

by Barbara Hodges

  Gnaw suddenly growled and Brianna turned in time to see Vulpine stand. He picked Katarina up and ran toward the trees with her.

  “Mason,” she said. “Vulpine’s….”

  “Let him go,” Mason said.

  She felt a warmth enter her arm. The Goddess’ hand lay upon it. “It is time for you to go home.”

  “But Mirabella.”

  “Time and the coming child will heal her.”

  Brianna looked to the sobbing woman. It didn’t seem right to leave her, but there was nothing she or Mason could do or say. She looked at Mason and he nodded. “Okay. What do we do?”

  The Goddess smiled. “I will do it all.” She ran her fingertips above Brianna’s eyes and then did the same to Mason’s. “You will sleep, and when you awake, you will be home.”

  “Gnaw. Don’t forget Gnaw,” Brianna said. The last thing she saw before sleep claimed her was the Goddess’s smile.

  ******

  With eyes closed, Brianna stretched. She became aware of an arm around her waist and a warm body pressed against her. Something soft tickled her cheek. Her eyes opened to a pair of gold ones staring back.

  “Gnaw,” she said, scratching behind the wolf pup’s ear. Then it all washed over her. Mirabella. Christian’s death. She sat up. She was in a large four-poster bed. Mason lay beside her. It wasn’t her bedroom, so it must be his.

  They were home.

  Mason opened his eyes. She saw the moment realization came to him. He said nothing, just pulled her close. Emotions warred within her. She was home. Her visit to Alamonar had left her with pain, but it had also brought her love. But Mirabella?

  Mason released her and stood. “We are to go to my art gallery.”

  “What?”

  He didn’t answer her, just circled to her side of the bed and held out his hand.

  Frowning, she let him pull her to her feet. He led her from the room, with Gnaw following, down a flight of stairs and into the small art gallery.

  “I don’t get it,” she said.

  Mason pulled her deeper into the room. “I understand. Look.”

  There were six new paintings on the walls. There was the first of Mirabella in the Goddesses’ glade, but then there was a next. It showed Mirabella with a child being breast-fed. The next showed Mirabella walking in the woods, holding the hand of a little boy. In the third, Mirabella stood with a young man who towered above her. The fourth showed the same young man at a wedding, a woman looking into his eyes adoringly. The fifth painting was of the man and woman sitting on twin thrones, and the last and final painting showed a contented town with people going about their lives.

  Brianna felt tears fill her eyes, but they were tears of peace and joy. She linked her fingers with Mason’s and, with Gnaw leading, they walked from the room.

  Rainbow Raindrops

  A gust of wind drove rain beneath the hood of my jacket and into my eyes. “What the hell am I doing?”

  I ducked into the shadowed alcove of the City Museum. Sunlight broke from behind a dark cloud and bathed the street in light. The rain continued to stream and I looked through a curtain of tear-shaped rainbows. Rainbow raindrops.

  I closed my eyes and again felt Grandpa’s callused hand gripping mine. I smelled his Aqua Velva as we walked in the soft rain, our hands swinging in-time to his humming of the Tennessee Waltz.

  “Ready, Princess Annabel? One…two…three…now turn, and turn…” His hand lifted mine high over my head, and I turned, around and around, in the misty wetness, dancing among the rainbow raindrops, feeling them clinging to my eyelashes and running unheeded down my cheeks.

  “Grandpa,” I whispered and for a moment I almost remembered how to smile again.

  “You coming in, Miss?”

  The words came from behind me.

  I blinked my eyes, turned. “What?”

  A security guard had opened the door to the

  museum. “You’re blocking the door. Are you coming in?”

  “Yes, I guess I am.“

  Inside, I dropped the hood of my jacket back. I saw the guard glance at my green turban and then look quickly away. I pushed by him without a word and headed for the wall of French Impressionists at the far back.

  Standing in front of the muted colors of a Monet, I hugged my stomach and blinked back tears. Grandpa was gone, grandma, too, and that happy little girl was nothing but a bitter memory. When I’d danced among the rainbow raindrops, I’d believed in happily ever after – a blue-and-yellow house with a white picket fence, a handsome husband, and two brown-eyed kids; a boy and a girl.

  What a crock. My caustic laugh caused a middle-aged man and woman to stare at me, and I glared back until they looked away and hurried down the hallway.

  I wandered on. Stopped to look into a glass case. My wavering reflection stared back at me.

  I reached to touch the green turban. My eyes were like sunken holes, so dark were the circles surrounding them. I knew the rest of my body resembled a walking cadaver. I could sure wear a bikini now. I’d finally lost those stubborn ten pounds of chubby fat that had always clung to my stomach and thighs. Now that’s a diet you never read about in the women’s magazines – the chemotherapy plan. I laughed again and looked around to see if anybody else wanted to stare at me. But I was alone in the dim room.

  I really didn’t like the new, bitter me, but it seemed impossible to change, and why should I? I was going to die. I clamped my lips together, holding back the scream that always seemed so close to erupting. I was only twenty-five. Women weren’t supposed to get ovarian cancer and die at twenty-five. I hugged my stomach again, feeling the emptiness.

  I watched a woman enter the room. She looked at me, and I ducked behind a tall display case. I didn’t want her to see the tears streaking my cheeks. When I looked again, she was gone.

  I wandered into another room.

  Among suits of armor and Renaissance shields, I could see a young boy wearing a dark three-piece suit. He hopped from one stream of slanting sunlight to another. His cheeks were rosy with life and, for a moment, I hated him. Then he glanced at me and I could see that his blue eyes were wide with pain. I turned away quickly. I didn’t want to know what had left such anguish there.

  I walked back into the room of French Impressionist paintings.

  A young, black, and very pregnant girl leaned against a marble column in the room’s center. Her hands caressed her bulging stomach as she stared into nothingness. I moved quickly by her.

  Next to the museum’s gift room was a coffee shop. Inside, dry, ventilated air reeked of scorched coffee and stale grease. My legs trembled as I headed toward a far table beneath the shop’s one window. I plopped into a hard-bottomed chair and winced. No padding there anymore. A phantom strand of hair tickled my cheek and I brushed at it, even though I knew it wasn’t really there. I felt sick and needed a drink of water but was afraid to stand.

  “You can see me, can’t you,” a voice asked.

  I glanced up. It was the woman I’d glimpsed earlier. Where had she come from? I hadn’t seen her come through the door. She was stuffed into an azure polyester two-piece pants suit. Her blonde hair looked like it was lacquered in place and two bright-pink circles of blush clownishly decorated her cheeks.

  Go away, I wanted to say, but instead asked, “What do you mean.”

  Her glossy carmine lips spread in a big smile. “You can see me.”

  I rubbed at the back of my neck. “I’d like to be alone.”

  She plopped down in the chair across from me. “But why?” she said, then slapped the table top.

  “I’ve got it. You’re dying.” She glanced at my turban. “The big ‘C’, right?”

  I glared at her silence.

  You know, cancer,” she added.

  I looked around for someone to summon, a pest exterminator with a full knowledge of poisons preferably. “Leave me alone.”

  “That’s gotta be it. You’ve got a leg in both worlds. That’s why you can see
me.”

  I started to risk standing, but then she stood, her ample bosom rising right through the wood of the table. With a small squeal, I dropped back into my chair. “How’d you do that?”

  She glanced down. “Sorry. I guess that wasn’t the best way to spill the beans.” She held out her chubby hand. “I’m Trudy Mills, and I’m dead.”

  Without thought, I reached out to shake her hand. There was a tingling of cold as mine passed right through hers.

  “Oh, my God.” I glanced around wildly; but other than the bored-looking young man behind the counter, we were alone. “Get away from me,” I yelled, surging to my feet.

  The young man bolted from behind the counter and hurried to me. “Is there a problem?” “Make her get away from my table,” I said.

  Trudy shook her head at me in a clear warning.

  “Who, lady?”

  “Her.” I pointed toward Trudy. “Can’t you see her?”

  He took a step back from me. “Maybe I’d just better get security…”

  “No, wait. I was just joking. Of course there isn’t anyone there. You just looked so bored…”

  He turned away, shaking his head. “Can I get you anything?”

  Trudy’s ringing laughter should have drowned out my answer of “glass of ice water, please.”

  But he nodded and just walked away.

  When Trudy had herself under control, she said. “Most times the living can’t see us. It’s

  because you’ve got one foot in the grave that you can.”

  “Us?” I said. If I’d tried to stand at that moment I would have passed out. “There are more of you?”

  She nodded. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Annabel Lee.

  “A beautiful name.” She smiled. “It was many and many a year ago, “ she recited, her eyes half-closed. “In a kingdom by the sea. That a maiden there lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee.”

  My mouth must have dropped open, because she opened her eyes wide and frowned at me.

  “What? You don’t think that someone like me could know poetry?”

  “I…”

  “Well, for your information, I love Poe, and I can’t wait to meet him. I can do the whole Raven. You want to hear it?”

  “No, “ I said, leaning back.

  “Just as well. The kid’s coming back. His name’s Chuck. He’s been working here about a month.”

  The young man handed me my water. “It’s starting to really come down outside. You want me to call you a cab?”

  “No, I think I’l1 stay a little longer.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and walked away. “Suit yourself.”

  I heard a low whistle and faced Trudy.

  “I favor blondes myself, but his butt ain’t half bad, is it?”

  I couldn’t get words to form, so simply nodded.

  “Don’t look so scared. I’m not going to bite you. I’m a ghost, not a vampire. But I guess I could be called the walking dead though. Right?” Looking very pleased with herself, she hooted a nerve-jangling laugh.

  “The others?” I said forcing my lips to smile.

  Trudy stood. “Let’s go meet them.” She touched my arm and I felt that cold tingle again.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  Trudy reached toward me. “You gotta. How else are you going to set us free?”

  “Me? What can I do? I’m not a priest. I haven’t even been in church for months.”

  “But you can see us. All you have to do is listen.” She looked over my shoulder. “Look, here comes Jonathan.”

  I turned in my chair. It was the little boy with the sad eyes I’d seen earlier.

  “It’s okay, Johnny, she can see us,” Trudy said, motioning him forward. He came to stand beside Trudy. His eyes studied his toes and a small, shy smile curved his lips. I noticed the color I’d seen earlier on his cheeks. It wasn’t good health, but a garish pink blush.

  “She’s gonna help.”

  The boy’s head jerked up. An expression of hope filled his brown eyes and I swallowed my words of denial.

  “You are? You’re going to set us free?” Without waiting for my answer, he turned and ran through the nearest wall. “Wait ‘til I tell the others.”

  I faced Trudy, angry at being manipulated, but she just smiled. “Johnny’s been here thirty-five years. You can’t blame him for being excited.”

  “Thirty-five years? But how…?”

  “His mommy only turned for a minute. He was on a merry-go-round. But that was all it took for some sicko to lure him away.”

  “I don’t get it. Why are you all stuck here?”

  “We got killed all of a sudden, and none of us got the chance to say what the one thing was that had made us so happy to be alive.”

  “That’s it? I let you tell me what that was, and you’re out of here?”

  Trudy winked at me. “That’s it.”

  “But why here? And why me?”

  “I already told you why, and the here? What better place for old relics to wait, because that’s what we all are, no matter our ages, old relics from years gone by.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Me?” Trudy turned and walked to the door and, wanting an answer, I stood and followed. “Not long. Only twenty-two years.”

  “But…” I motioned towards her polyester pants suit.

  She laughed. “It’s my step-daughter’s revenge. I told her daddy I caught her smoking. She knew I hated polyester anything. And when you go unexpected like, you don’t get to pick out what you’re buried in.”

  “How did it happen?”

  The smile fled. “Too much booze and too little brains.”

  Trudy led me to the amphitheater where the museum held its public lectures. Every seat was taken.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered.

  “Hey, everyone,” Trudy called. “This is Annabel Lee. She’s come to listen to us.”

  I’d never been applauded by two hundred ghosts before but, surprisingly, I didn’t faint.

  Trudy turned to me. “Where do you want to start?”

  I saw the pregnant young black woman I’d seen earlier, leaning against the door. “When did she die?”

  “That’s Chantel. She’s been here thirty-two years.”

  “How?”

  “She fell down the stairs. She was arguing with her mom. Her mom didn’t like that the baby’s daddy was white.”

  “I’ll start with her.”

  “Chantel,” Trudy called. “You’re first.”

  Chantel came and stood before me. She clasped her hands on top of her stomach and, looking me straight in the eyes, said, “My happiest day? It was when Darryl came home. My Darryl, he was n the Navy. He didn’t even know about the baby.” She caressed her stomach. “He took one look at me, and then he said, ‘I love you, Chantel. Will you be my wife?’”

  I squinted against a sudden glare. A white light formed in back of the young woman and, as the last word left her lips, the light surged forward, surrounding her in a golden shroud. It flared like an incandescent torch, and then it and Chantel were gone.

  Trudy touched my arm. “Who’s next?”

  I pointed at Jonathan. The little boy whooped and sprang toward me

  *****

  I stayed that night until I was asked to leave, and came back the next day as soon as the doors opened. I stayed all that day, and the next, and the next. I knew the people at the museum thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. And yes, listening took a lot out of me. Sometimes I was so wrung out I could barely stumble home. I don’t know when I stopped being afraid to die. One morning-I just wasn’t.

  It was Monday of the third week when I walked into the amphitheater and stopped in confusion. “Trudy, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can see through you, all of you. Is this some kind of ghost trick?”

  To my surprise, Trudy’s face lit with a joyous s
mile. “My God, is that true? You’re having a hard time seeing us?”

  “What are you doing different?”

  “Oh, Annabel, it’s not us. It’s you. Don’t you see? You’re getting well. You’re going back to the world of the living. You’re not going to die.”

  I had felt better in the past week. “Trudy, you’re fading.” I felt the cold tingle of her hand brush my arm. “It’s okay. The rest of us can wait a little longer.”

  “No. I can still see you a little. Let’s do it. You first. What has been your happiest day?”

  “Them first.”

  I could no longer see her eyes and her face was just a soft blur.

  One by one they glided toward me, telling me of their happiest days, until the last flared away. I turned around to smile my triumph at Trudy, but the amphitheater looked empty. “Trudy. Trudy. Dear God, Trudy, where are you?” Then I saw her, just a faint ripple of azure blue before me. “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me.”

  “Today,” she said, her voice the crackle of dried leaves. “Right now.”

  Then she too was gone.

  I sat for a while in the total silence, then I left the museum. Outside, the rain was falling. Behind each drop was a wash of bright sun, and I saw them, my rainbow raindrops. With a small laugh, I raced out into the downpour and, humming the Tennessee Waltz, I began to dance – a dance of life.

  The Golden Avatar

  A story of Daradawn

  Part One

  Wind whipped the reed boat; water flooded the deck with each side-to-side plunge. It scaled a wave, plummeted, shuddered with the force of its landing. The lone survivor moaned as he surfaced into consciousness. He licked his dry lips. “Please, Goddess, let me come to you now.”

  “No, Dahlabar, you will not die, for I have need of you.”

  It was the same voice that had spoken to him in his dreams, and for a moment he thought he still slept, but a slap of frigid sea-spray against his cheeks told him otherwise. With the aid of the boat’s trembling sides, he pulled himself to his knees. Blinking his swollen eyes, he stared across the rolling expanse of gray. Lightning slashed cross the darkening sky.