by Shae Hutto
“He’s brown bread, lass,” he said soothingly. “He’s not gonna be bothering us this time.” At first, Claire made no response, but after a few seconds, she nodded curtly. “In fact,” he continued with a hint of satisfied mirth, “Although I was plugged through the middle and not thinking too well, I seem to remember one steely-eyed hero separating the mangy git from his ugly noggin.” She grinned fiercely as she recalled the exact same thing.
“That was one fierce ballerina,” she said, unable to resist the urge to rib him.
“Eh? It was me, you ginger minx,” he protested.
“True enough,” she allowed. “But you were wearing a tutu at the time, dear.”
“I was not!” He roared indignantly. “I was wearing a magical disguise that included the illusion of a tutu,” he amended meekly. He stomped on in silence for a few seconds. “I should have visited violent murder on that chancy gaffer that sold me that spell,” he said after some thought and appeared chagrined at his lack of violent murder.
Claire stopped in the track and Roger stopped, too. He was about to ask why they had come to such a sudden halt when he realized Claire was staring at the futuristic pet carrier that sat askew in the grass by the side of the road. This was the same carrier they had hauled Spanky around in on their last visit. Roger couldn’t tell what Claire was thinking, this time.
“We’ll find him, Claire,” he said, guessing she might be feeling guilty for abandoning the little alien monkey.
“Right,” she said, giving nothing away concerning her internal processes. They started walking again, soon leaving the cage behind to glisten dully in the sunshine, seemingly impervious to corrosion and the ravages of time, such as it was.
They had some apprehension about the wall around Aulain and the little gate the track ran in through. It was certainly possible that the Queen had posted guards to watch for their return. If that was the case, getting in through that gate would be a problem. They might have to find an alternate entrance. By mutual, but unspoken consent, they approached the gate slowly and quietly, having moved off the track and into the taller grass on the side of the road in an effort to be less conspicuous. As it turned out, there was nobody at the gate, watching for them or otherwise. It would appear that they overestimated their importance to the Queen. Or maybe the gate guard guild was on strike or something. Either way, they stirred up the mosquitoes to a regrettable degree for no good reason.
Once inside the town, they took turns with a bottle of OFF with questionable efficacy and indeterminate provenance. It did manage to expel a foul cloud of death-smelling stink that followed them around like the dirt on Pigpen in a Peanuts strip. It was also a clear case of locking the barn after the horses were stolen and did nothing to ease the itch of bites already accumulated. Roger began to leak obscenities like a tea kettle just coming to boil leaks steam.
“Calm down, dude,” soothed Claire. “Any place called Mad Mike’s Miraculous Mysteries has to have some anti-itch cream of some sort. Calamine lotion or something.”
“It’s Marvelous Mysteries, you eejit,” he growled back at her while attempting to scratch some mosquito bites on the back of his neck and just succeeding in making the welts larger and redder. Without answering him, Claire walked on ahead, and Roger followed, his blue streak ended for the moment. The road dumped them into a picturesque town square surrounded by familiar buildings and centered on a pretty little fountain. The Queen’s Colors was still where it used to be and the colors were just as hideous as Claire recalled. The Cathedral looked the same, as did all the shops and businesses. There was no Mad Mike’s, however. The building was still there and it looked the same, but the sign now read Maniacal Marvin’s Misplaced Miracles.
“Looks like we were both wrong,” said Claire as she studied the sign and the building behind it in a state of mild confusion. That is not what that sign had read last time they were here, she would swear to it.
“What we need is a bleeding chemist, redser,” grumbled Roger who had turned and was looking at the cathedral with interest as his voice trailed off, chemist forgotten. Claire followed his gaze and then looked at him and cocked her head to the side, sassily.
“You wanting to go in and make a confession or something?” she asked him, hoping to get a rise out of him.
“Wouldn’t hurt, now would it?” he asked rhetorically.
“You don’t even know what denomination that church is, Rog,” she said. “Wait, I don’t know what denomination you are, either. Are you Catholic?”
“As the day is long,” he said and started walking toward the big wooden doors of the church. Now it was Claire’s turn to follow. They approached they massive stone building that seemed to Claire to be mildly imposing. Its grey stones radiated authority as if they were mortared with respectability or possibly quarried from God’s backyard. Roger seemed eager to enter what to him was an inviting space promising coolness and shade.
“Is everyone in Ireland Catholic?” Claire asked curiously and was surprised when Roger stopped dead in his tracks.
“Now, wouldn’t that solve a boat load of problems, like?” he remarked mournfully.
“What do you mean?”
Roger stared at her, dumbfounded that she had no idea what can of worms she was opening. He didn’t know if this was ignorance particular to Claire or if it reflected a more general lack of knowledge of Irish affairs in the US. He supposed it could indicate the lack of importance the rest of the world placed on his home country. It could also mean that in Claire’s time, the violence had stopped and was being swept from collective consciousness onto the rubbish heap of history.
“You ever hear of the ‘Troubles’, lass?” he probed softly. Despite the soft voice, Claire could plainly hear the capital T.
“No,” she answered slowly, aware that she was missing a chunk of knowledge that Roger considered very important. “Should I have?”
“You’re at least aware that there is a Republic of Ireland and a Northern Ireland, which is ruled by the English?”
“That rings a bell, but I probably couldn’t have told you that,” said Claire, looking a bit ashamed of her ignorance. Roger grunted in disapproval.
“I suppose it’s King Charles III by your time?” he asked, looking at Claire with one eyebrow raised.
“No. Queen Elizabeth is still alive and kicking, although she must be close to ninety years old.”
“Amazing,” mused Roger. “She was ancient in my time. Prince Charles and Princess Diana must be getting up there by now, too, yeah.”
“Well, Prince Charles certainly is. But Di is, how did you put it… brown bread,” said Claire with some reluctance. Roger gasped, his eyes expanding to a comical diameter in shock.
“How did she kick it?” he asked out of morbid curiosity. “No, wait. Lemme guess. Terrorists?”
“No, it was-,” began Claire but Roger cut her off.
“Tch Tch. I’m guessing, here. Suicide?”
“No,” said Claire, tapping her foot and ostentatiously looking at her watch. Roger ignored her display.
“Plane crash?”
“No.”
“Drug overdose? Choked on a ham sandwich? Fell down the bleeding stairs?” Each guess was met with a curt shake of Claire’s coppery head.
“Jeesh, Roger,” she exploded finally. “You can’t guess worth beans. It was a car wreck. In a tunnel somewhere in France, I think.”
“Bloody Frogs,” muttered Roger. “People drive on the wrong side of the road over there. Look what it causes. Dead royalty smashed all to flinders in bloody traffic.”
“So, are you going to tell me what these ‘Troubles’ are or not?” asked Claire, her impatience obviously not completely dissipated.
“The Protestants and the Catholics dinna get along,” Roger explained brusquely. “Nor did the lads in Northern Ireland take kindly to being governed from London. A long story short: they formed the Irish Republican Army and made a career out of blowing Englishmen to kingdom come.
Or if you prefer the long version, it began when England took us over in…”
“I don’t prefer at the moment,” broke in Claire. “Save it for later, ok?”
“Ok,” mumbled Roger, a little hurt. “Consider the history lesson over, then. For now. It’s not like you didn’t ramble on about history, your own self. Although you’re quite a bit cuter than my last history teacher.”
“Can we go in the freaking church now that our history lessons are all finished?”
“After you, Claire-bear, history teacher extraordinaire,” he said unctuously and gestured toward the doors with an open hand.
“There’ll be a test later,” promised Claire grimly. “And not over poetry. Your rhymes suck.”
Roger mimicked her behind her back, sticking his nose in the air and making a hideous face. She turned and caught him and he stopped in mid stride, his mocking face frozen in place. Then he smiled and, ignoring her expression of rage, nonchalantly preceded her into the dark recesses of the stone cathedral.
Inside, it was pleasantly dark and cool. It took their eyes a moment to adjust to the interior enough for them to make out much detail. It looked much like any other catholic church to Claire. Being nominally a protestant, she wasn’t intimately acquainted with the parts of a catholic church or their names, but certain things were recognizable from what she was familiar with from TV and books. Obviously, there were rows of pews and an elevated pulpit. Where they stood, there was a bowl, filled with holy water, she presumed. On a whim, she filled an empty water bottle from it when Roger wasn’t looking. It seemed vaguely like something a veteran adventurer would want to have on their person, but she was somewhat afraid of offending Roger’s sensibilities by putting it in a crumpled plastic bottle labeled ‘Aqua Fina.’
Words, strange to her and unspecific in their definitions, floated out of the dark recesses of her memory. Words like ‘narthex,’ ‘chancel,’ and ‘sacristy’ tormented her with half grasped meanings. It was frustrating that here she was, surely seeing those things and not knowing how to identify them. It was a painful situation for someone who prized words. She grunted in irritation and turned to look at Roger who suddenly froze, staring toward one corner of the building. Following his gaze, she saw he was intently looking at something she did recognize: a confessional.
“If your heart is that overburdened by sin-,” she began but cut off when he harshly waved his hand at her in a slashing motion and pointed at the little double-doored structure. She couldn’t see whatever it was that had alarmed him, so she silently made her way to his side. “What is it?” she asked quietly.
“Do you recall that military berk?” asked Roger in a matching quiet voice. “The one what led us to the Queen. Mr. Ed or whatever.”
“Lieutenant Ed?” asked Claire. “Mr. Ed was a horse,” she added.
“The very man,” agreed Roger. “The lieutenant, not the horse,” he clarified.
“What of him?” she asked. “Did you see him?”
“He’s in that booth, at this moment,” he said a little viciously. “Being shriven of all manner of mischief, no doubt. Murdering children, stealing from the poor and teasing three legged dogs and the like.”
“Pulling the wings off flies, too, do you think?” teased Claire.
“Wouldna surprise me, lass. He’s right depraved.” Roger started a fast, but stealthy walk toward the booth, determination evident in his face and his stride. Claire didn’t know what he had in mind, but was willing to go along for the moment. She caught up with him in time to stop him from drawing his sabre.
“Maybe we can use him without holes in his hide,” she suggested. “Here, I’ll lock the priest in his side. Which side is that, by the way?” Roger pointed to the one that didn’t hold a gaudily garbed Lieutenant of the Queen’s Guard and Claire pointed her wand at that door with a flourish that produced absolutely nothing. No blue outline. No click. She frowned and shook her wand in frustration. Nothing. Maybe this wand didn’t work in church? Or it was out of gas? She shrugged expressively and spread her hands wide. Roger started to pull his sword again. She motioned him to wait.
Claire quickly but quietly rummaged around in her ugly orange beaded bag of holding until she found what she was looking for: a cordless drill and a box of wood screws purloined from Alex Clancy High. She stood, holding the drill and trying to figure out how best to attack the door. Roger grasped the workings of the tool immediately. The technology of the battery was well beyond what his world could produce, but the workings of simple power tools were no mystery to him. Roger grabbed them from her in an impatient fit of exasperation and with a surprisingly loud electric ‘whirring’ had four screws sunk through the door and into the jam in just a couple of seconds. By the second one, the occupant was trying unsuccessfully to force the door and the last two were just for good measure. He turned around just in time to punch Ed in the face with the drill as he opened his own door from the inside.
As Ed fell back into the booth, Roger followed him in and the door closed behind them, limiting her knowledge of the inner struggle to loud sounds of violence and a bit of howling. The priest locked in the other side was alternating between yelling to be let out and for Ed’s assailant to cease and desist. Neither of those things happened for a few seconds, then with a final loud thud, the contest came to a close, and the only sound from within was heavy ragged breathing and the soft, Irish-canted swearing of the victor.
“Forgive him, father,” said Claire. “For he has sinned something fierce.”
“I’ve an idea, Claire-bear,” said Roger as he dragged an unconscious Lieutenant Ed out of the booth and slumped him over a prie-dieu next to the violated confessional. He nonchalantly tossed her the drill, which she stored in her bag and then wiped some blood from her hands onto the screwed shut door of the confessional.
“Does this idea involve flaming churches or pools of blood?” Asked Claire half sarcastically. The priest started a fresh round of yelling and trying to escape from his little prison when he heard Claire’s question. She rolled her eyes at the commotion.
“Never in life,” he answered. “At least it doesn’t if that rancid git will stop being such a dope and pipe down,” he amended in a loud voice intended to reach the struggling priest. The ruckus quit in response.
__________________________________
Not long after Roger declared that he had a plan, the duo cautiously made their way toward the castle. Evening was slowly, stubbornly giving way to night and the streets were a mix of dusky shadows amid pools of light from gas lamps. Claire stuck to the darker spots, trusting her Elven cloak to help her to blend in and remain unseen as she slunk along. Her biggest annoyance was lugging all Roger’s crap with her, especially his ridiculous sword and belt, which tended to clank and rattle. Roger ignored the islands of light and walked through them nonchalantly, the light glinting off the many decorations on his eye-wateringly ugly uniform. There were some small bloodstains on the front, but in the gloom, they tended to blend in with the pink, lavender and booger-green uniform. It also wasn’t a great fit; Lt. Ed was a little taller and stockier than Roger. He tried not to look at himself in passing reflective surfaces, or to think too much about how awful his getup was. He assumed what he thought of as a military bearing and marched steadfastly through the village surrounding the castle, toward the gate to the massive pile of stone, where one guard with a halberd stood at parade rest. As he approached, Roger glanced to his left at a quick moving blur he assumed to be Claire. When he got to the gate, the guard snapped to attention out of reflex at the sight of an officer’s uniform, but when he didn’t recognize Roger’s face, he swiftly moved the halberd to block the entrance to the castle grounds. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“I don’t recognize you,” he said, keeping a wary eye on Roger as he continued to block the gateway. “Sir,” he added just to be safe.
“Is that the way you salute an officer, soldier?” snarled Roger in a passable imitation of R. Lee Ermy. “H
ow about you stand at attention when I’m talking to you, son!” he yelled at the startled guard’s face, taking his cues straight from Full Metal Jacket. Unsure of what to do, the guard came to attention and saluted Roger hesitantly, holding his halberd at present arms. “You call that a salute?” he yelled at the confused guard. “What’s your name, soldier?” Before the startled soldier could answer, a blurred shape slid out of the shadows next to him and hit him square in the face with a rock, breaking his nose and causing him to slump to his knees. He dropped the halberd and held his broken face, blood streaming from between his hands. Roger groaned.
“Again? What is it with these guards?” he asked the blurred shape rhetorically. He gingerly pulled the helmet off the now sobbing guard and tossed it down next to the halberd. “Sorry, bud,” he said quietly and kicked him square in the temple. The guard collapsed on his side and began to snore, bloody bubbles gurgling out of his crooked nose. “Well, at least we didn’t do this berk in,” he said with some satisfaction.
“I couldn’t get the magic lasso spell to work,” she replied. “What was all the yelling, though?” asked Claire as she pulled her hood down from over her head. “I thought we were trying to be quiet.”
