Something Magic This Way Comes

by Sarah A. Hoyt

  She had interviewed for a job curating the local university’s collection of historical artifacts going back nearly ten thousand years. Getting hired depended upon her finishing her dissertation by the end of the year. November had come a week ago. She was running out of time.

  With any kind of luck Josiah Marshall’s journals would contain a few nuggets of insight into the situation.

  From what she’d read of his exploits, mostly second hand information, he’d spent a good deal of his missionary time persuading fur traders and mountain men to marry their Indian wives in Christian—and therefore legal—ceremonies.

  Old Josiah Marshall didn’t approve of Indian ceremonies or of the Hudson’s Bay Company practice of recording the marriages in their books as if they were business transactions. Company clerks recorded marriages right alongside inventories of supplies sold to the fur trader.

  She rolled out of bed and slapped the alarm off in one awkward movement.

  She tripped and almost fell trying to cram her legs into panty hose and her one and only power suit of sapphire wool, the same color as her eyes. Then she stubbed her toe on her discarded boots as she ran to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

  Damn. She was never this clumsy.

  Crawling and cursing, she fished her good black shoes with the sensible one and one half inch heels out from under the bed.

  If she broke every speed limit in town and hit all the lights right, she should be able to greet the Marshall descendant on time with a mask of professional calm and a courteous handshake.

  Another bell startled her. She banged her head on the bed frame trying to get up from her awkward stretch to retrieve the elusive shoe.

  The doorbell sounded again. This time, the obnoxiously early person leaned on it as if he had a mission.

  “Go away,” she shouted, rubbing the back of her head with one hand and brushing dust panthers off her suit with the other.

  The bell rang again, longer, louder.

  “Then let yourself in if you’re in such an all-fired hurry!” She had a vague recollection of slamming the door closed without locking it about midnight when she’d stumbled home from the small house museum she ran.

  The latch lifted and the door swung inward, propelled by unseen hands.

  Gabby shivered. Memories of her dream and the eerie feeling surrounding the Gypsy woman lingered.

  She still smelled burning incense, an exotic blend of patchouli and jasmine. Funny, now that she thought about it, friends at the university said that the Renaissance Fair folded and never returned to campus after Gabby graduated with a double major in History and Anthropology, concentrating on the Pacific Northwest.

  The Fair organizers had shown up for the first time five years earlier, at the end of her freshman year.

  “Ms. Whythe?” an imperious voice asked.

  Gabby looked up to see a tall male silhouetted in the morning light.

  “Wh . . . who needs to know?” She had a sudden fear of a family summons back to Boston. She didn’t have the time to fly off to one of Grumpy’s deathbed scenes. He performed them about every five years, conning family members into conforming to his expectations so they could inherit his fortune. Then he’d miraculously recover, only to succumb again when the family drifted away from his strictures.

  Gabby didn’t care about the family fortune. She’d built her own life, determined her own fate.

  Her left foot finally plopped into place against the sole of her shoe. She started working on the right.

  “Your great-grandfather, Roderick Griffin Whythe IV, sent me.” The man, followed by a large dog, stepped through the door of her tiny bungalow, on the outskirts of the university town.

  “What does Grumpy want now?” She hadn’t been back to the family estate in Boston or to any of the family gatherings in ten years. Not only did she not have the interest, the three-thousand-mile trek would take too much time away from her work. The emotional commitment of dealing with probing questions from the gaggle of her extended family would take too much energy and creativity away from her work.

  The last reason was more compelling to keep her away from her family than just the time. She had six weeks of vacation saved up. But she planned to add it to her sabbatical next year to join an archaeological dig of the site of a Hudson’s Bay Trading Post in Montana.

  “Mr. Whythe has requested that I find a home for this female puppy. The last of the litter his bitch whelped six months ago,” the man intoned. He looked down his long nose at Gabby.

  She had to look up a long way to meet his eyes.

  “Well, I can’t take a dog. Certainly not now. I’ve got to get to my museum.” Gabby got to her knees in preparation to standing. What was it about Grumpy’s dogs? Something important to the lineage. She didn’t really care.

  A long wet tongue slurped across her face. A pair of deep gray eyes, intelligent eyes, appeared above the tongue. Gabby found herself staring deeply into those eyes. Deep pools of understanding and wisdom . . .

  Something akin to communication nagged at her perceptions.

  Nonsense.

  “Oh, dear. I was afraid this would happen,” the man said. He sounded as distressed as his plummy butler’s voice could.

  “Hey, aren’t you Grumpy’s butler?” Gabby finally recognized the man’s voice. She hadn’t seen him in a decade, but she’d never forget that disapproving voice.

  He uttered every word as if she were the lowliest worm crawling out from beneath rotting wood.

  “Ian McTavis VI, at your service, ma’am.” He executed a slight bow from the waist. But he didn’t sound happy. Not at all.

  Gabby used the tall dog’s shoulder as a prop to get to her feet. The dog gratefully leaned into her side and looked up at her with adoring eyes. In another time, another place, under completely different circumstances, she might have returned the look. She settled for scratching the pup’s ears.

  Cymorth.

  The strange word popped into Gabby’s head. Almost as if the puppy had said something. She had the strange sense that the pup wanted to help her.

  Pup? The brindled wolfhound might be only six months old, but it stood almost as tall as her hip. By the time she reached her full growth, she’d outweigh Gabby by fifty pounds or more.

  “Couldn’t afford to feed you, even if I could take care of you, pup,” Gabby said, stuffing keys, wallet, ID badge, and a packet of tissues into her good black purse.

  “Lock the door on your way out, Ian. I’ve got to get going. And good luck finding a home for the pup.”

  “Did she tell you her name?” Ian asked skeptically.

  “Not hardly. Dogs can’t talk.”

  “You might think so now,” Ian muttered.

  Gabby dashed for her little electric car. Ecologically sound it might be, but not a speed demon. Traffic around campus in the morning was always a mess, increasing her commute time. She didn’t have any time to spare.

  The dog bounded after her. Gabby tripped over her trying to get the car unlocked.

  “Sorry. You can’t come with me. Hey, Ian, come get the dog.” What was it about Grumpy’s dogs? Something important. Something about the dogs choosing the heir.

  Heir to what? Grumpy’s millions would go a long way toward restoring her little jewel of a museum and hiring extra help while she finished her dissertation.

  “The dog is no longer my responsibility,” Ian said.

  He sounded upset. Maybe he didn’t want to give the dog away at all. “She has chosen her new owner. Your fates are now sealed together.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Gabby snarled at him. That was twice today she’d been told her fate was fixed.

  Once in the dream memory. And now from impassive Ian.

  “Grumpy had seven children.” Four of them legitimate.

  “They each had at least two children and I don’t know how many grandchildren. Surely one of them would make a better owner for a wolfhound than me.”

  Angrily she pushed the dog
aside as it tried to climb into the little car ahead of her.

  “I have visited thirty-two of your closest relatives, Ms. Whythe. The dog liked none of them. She is yours now. Along with a great many other responsibilities. Your great-grandfather will be in touch. I’ll put the dog’s food and toys into your kitchen and then lock up as I leave.” Ian turned and approached a long black car that must get only four gallons to the mile.

  “Get out, dog!” Gabby screamed, trying to hold the pup by the scruff of the neck.

  Cymorth.

  The strange word rang around Gabby’s mind.

  Help you.

  “Ian, I need some help here.”

  “You do indeed. But I cannot assist you. You must rely upon the dog for help now.”

  With that Cymorth leaped across the gear shift and settled into the passenger seat. She filled it to overflowing.

  That didn’t keep her from turning her massive head to look expectantly at Gabby.

  “Damnit, I don’t have time to fight with you, Dog.”

  Gabby climbed in and started the ignition.

  Cymorth, the word came again. Named Cymorth.

  Help you.

  Gabby shook her head to clear it of the alien voice and the image of the proper spelling of the word. Cymorth.

  Pronounced ky-more-dth, with the emphasis on the first syllable. She knew instantly that it meant “help” in Welsh.

  “Coffee. I need coffee. Too many late nights. Not enough sleep. I’m hallucinating. But I don’t have time to give in to it.”

  She put the car in gear and sped across campus to her museum.

  A big green SUV awaited her in the four car parking lot behind the white house. In 1849, when the Carter family built their home, it was the biggest building in town other than their woolen mill beside the waterfall.

  “I’m only five minutes late,” Gabby muttered as she jerked the parking brake into place. She tripped on the gravel in her haste to greet the long-legged man in carefully pressed khakis and a pristine green golf shirt and down vest that perfectly matched his vehicle.

  Cymorth bounced out of the car in her wake. She sniffed the man’s shoes rudely and circled him suspiciously.

  Then she sat on Gabby’s foot, leaning her substantial weight against her and shedding blonde guard hairs all over her lovely blue suit.

  If Gabby didn’t know better, she’d think the dog cringed away from the man.

  No trust.

  The thought popped into Gabby’s head, much as the dog’s name had. Immediately, she felt the fine hairs along her spine bristle, much as a dog’s would.

  The man held his hand out to Cymorth, palm down and let her sniff his knuckles. He carefully looked to the side, not challenging the huge dog.

  Cymorth retreated behind Gabby.

  “Irish Wolfhounds are usually more easy going than this. Not much threatens them,” he said, puzzled.

  “She’s young. I haven’t had her long.” Then remembering her manners, she stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Gabby Whythe.”

  “Jed Marshall.” He shook her hand briefly with a firm, dry grip.

  She took the opportunity to appraise the man.

  Younger than she expected. Midthirties. Fit. With the square jaw and windswept brown hair reminiscent of the portraits of his great, great, multi-great-grandfather.

  Cymorth nudged Gabby’s hand away from the man’s and onto her own head.

  “And this imperious young lady is Cymorth.” Gabby refrained from rolling her eyes.

  Jed Marshal turned his attention back to the dog.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Cymorth.”

  The dog wiggled away from his attempt to scratch her ears. She hadn’t been this shy about her first meeting with Gabby. What was wrong with her?

  “Sorry I’m late. Traffic,” Gabby apologized.

  “No problem. It’s my day off.”

  “If you’ll come with me, I have some papers for you to sign.”

  “I’ll bring the trunk with me.” He moved to open the back hatch of his monster vehicle. It might get five gallons to the mile.

  “I can get a hand truck . . .”

  “Don’t bother. It’s not that big or heavy.” He slid a blanket-wrapped box, about a yard long and two feet wide, out and hoisted it to his shoulder as if it weighed no more than a pillow.

  “A Dr. Gabriel Whythe came across on one of the early wagon trains. You any relation?” Jed Marshall asked as he set the trunk in the middle of Gabby’s office floor.

  The guy knew his history if he remembered that little factoid.

  “The doctor who treated cholera at the cost of his own life in 1845 was a younger son of a mutual ancestor,” Gabby explained. “He died without issue. I grew up in Boston.”

  “Pity. I was wondering why you hadn’t joined the Sons & Daughters of the Oregon Trail.” He sat in the chair beside the desk and stretched out his long legs.

  “I’m treasurer this year. We’re always looking for new members. Too many people these days have lost interest in their heritage.”

  Gabby perched on the edge of her chair. Cymorth circled and settled in the knee hole beneath the desk as if that had always been her place.

  “Have you read the journals in that trunk?” Gabby’s hands itched to remove the dusty blanket from the trunk and begin digging in. From the looks of it, the blanket could be an original trade blanket from the Hudson’s Bay. Cream-colored wool with the distinctive red, black, and green stripes, two black hash marks woven into one border. Worth two beaver pelts and would fit a standard-sized bed of the time. Barely big enough for a modern double bed.

  “I glanced at them as a kid in my grandparent’s attic. I stumbled across them when I cleaned the place out to put it up for sale last month. You’ve got better facilities to protect them than I do.”

  “And I appreciate the donation. But I have to ask, why didn’t you contact the university? I’ll be taking them to their preservation lab as soon as I catalog them. I’m pretty sure the papers will need deacidification before putting them on display.”

  “Thought about it. Decided you’d make better use of them. The university’s got lots of items. Can’t display a tenth of what they’ve got. They’d probably sit in archives for decades before some grad student got around to reading them.”

  “May I?” Gabby gestured to the trunk.

  “I’m surprised you waited this long,” he chuckled.

  Gently Gabby unfolded the layers of blanket. She wiggled her nose to keep from sneezing at the dust she raised. Cymorth lifted her head and sniffed too.

  Then she retreated into her hidey hole again.

  “The blanket’s part of the donation. I’ve included it in the inventory,” Jed Marshall said, holding up a sheet of paper folded in three. “I don’t know how old it is.”

  “Not real new,” Gabby chuckled. This time, she had to turn her head away and sneeze.

  “Mind if I look around? I haven’t toured this museum since a fourth grade field trip.”

  “Certainly. My assistant will be here in a few minutes. She can give you the full tour if you want.”

  “Nah, I’ll just look around.”

  Gabby dove into the jumbled assortment of journals, loose documents and old photos that highlighted the family history from 1843, when Old Josiah first arrived in the Oregon Country, to 1868. When the railroad bypassed Marshall Flats, the town and its church withered away to a ghost town. The inhabitants moved to the more convenient railhead.

  The parish registry seemed missing. Gabby made a note to ask if it had gone to another church. Including that book in a display would complete the collection nicely.

  Cymorth squeezed out from under the desk. She walked daintily around the piles of half-sorted documents.

  “Um . . . Cymorth, stay,” Gabby yelped just as the dog dropped her nose to sniff at the oldest journal.

  She grabbed the dog by the scruff of her neck and yanked her away from the precious artifact.<
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  The dog resisted and continued to nose open the fragile little book.

  “No!” Gabby let go of the big dog to grab up the journal with its cracked leather cover and frayed silk ribbon to tie the two covers closed. She grasped it where the leaves fell open under the dog’s prodding.

  Two words in the bold handwriting jumped out at her. “Emile Carter.”

  Anything to do with the town’s founder interested her. Eagerly she read the entry for January 1, 1846, the day Dr. John McLoughlin retired as Chief Factor of Hudson’s Bay Fort Vancouver. A number of trappers, traders, and company officers left with him, unhappy with changes in company administration that forced their beloved factor out.

  Today I married six men to their Indian wives, having first baptized all six women. They all chose the name Mary. Two McKay’s, one Stewart, and three Carters.

  Gabby’s heart skipped a beat. She forgot to breathe.

  This was the missing piece to her dissertation. What happened when old inheritance laws made a mistake?

  A multimillion dollar mistake that included a still prospering woolen mill, the house, other real estate, and small businesses. Wasn’t the local bank part of the original estate?

  Emile Carter’s friends and colleagues had described him as a man who wrote little and said less about himself. He considered his marriage a private matter; no one had any right to question it but himself and his God. He had no need to prove the legality of it.

  He probably never thought that his widow would have to prove it.

  Cymorth wedged her head beneath Gabby’s arm.

  Cymorth help Gabby.

  “Yes, my dear. You did help. But you’ll help more if you stay off these papers.”

  Trust Cymorth. No trust man.

  “Whatever.” Gabby read on, hoping for more information.

  Nothing to indicate the first names of the men who had legalized their marriages that day. One of the big problems in tracking genealogy through the fur trades was a frequent repetition of names. Whole clans of Scots displaced by the Clearances, refugee Huguenots, and Quebeçois farmers with itchy feet enlisted at the same time. Fathers and sons, brothers, uncles, cousins, all with the same last name and many with the same first names.