Naked in the Winter Wind (The Fairies Saga Book 1)

by Dani Haviland

  And then James was gone, walking away, dignified but engaging, holding the little silver coin in the air, looking at it as if it also held a secret.

  Ӂ

  “Circles: circles within circles, but not concentric,” I babbled, hoping to make sense out of something, anything, by verbalizing my clues. “Two off-center circles, like the ones punched in that coin and like the little eyes on the happy faces on your Band-Aids…that’s it!” The possible key to the mysterious map presented itself like sap on a pine tree, hard to see until found, and then hard to ignore.

  Simon’s eyes grew perfectly round as he looked at me, hopeful that I had found the answer for him.

  “Yes, look here.” I was so excited, like a little girl with a new dolly. I tore off little pieces of paper napkin to use as my markers. “Now, if you join these locations,” I used my finger to draw a line over the markers, “they’re like the smile on a face, and here’s the eye.”

  The map now looked like a child’s self-portrait, little toilet tissue teeth arranged in a semicircular broad grin, and one white eye. “Now, I think there should be another marker here.” I pointed to a blank area, glaringly devoid of any of the ancient character markings, where I thought the other eye ‘marker’ should be. “If this were a treasure map, this is where the X would be. See, those mountains are the smile, here’s one eye and here; here’s what you’re looking for,” I said with confidence. Then my insecurity kicked in. “You were looking for something, weren’t you?”

  Simon’s anticipation segued from hope to shock to glee, an asymmetrical smile growing ever so slowly, but definitely making an appearance. I don’t think he had ever smiled by the way his face pulled taut at the sides of his mouth.

  “Do you know where this is?” he asked.

  “Well, I can probably figure it out.” I turned around to look for Frankie. She was sitting at the cash register, sipping a cup of coffee and looking forlorn. Her pretty English lord had left. Oh, well. She had the weekend to look forward to. Maybe another foreigner or three would stray in. Someone was bound to strike her fancy.

  “Frankie,” I called out, breaking her reverie, “do you have a map of North Carolina around here?”

  Without saying a word, she reached under the podium and produced two brand new maps, adorned with full color advertisements framing the edges. “We got lots of ‘em. Let me know if you want more. Are you two ready for your pie yet?”

  “Oh, snap—Simon, would you like more tea with your cherry pie?”

  “Snap?” He looked down and around to see what he was missing. He saw I was looking at him, waiting for an answer. “Yes, more tea, if you would, please.”

  Frankie asked, “Do you want your pie a la mode?”

  “A la mode? What’s that?” Simon asked.

  Before Frankie could explain, I said, “Yes, make that two cherry pies a la mode and two hot teas, please.” I turned to Simon and asked, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “Well, yes and no. I haven’t been here in a very long time. Many things have changed since then. I know I’ve only been back for a short while, but I want to go back home. Could you help me a bit more? I hate to be such a burden, but...”

  I interrupted him before he could beg. “I’d be glad to help. Remember, I’m here on vacation and can pretty much do whatever I please. My daughter and I were supposed to go on this Revolutionary War battleground expedition together, but she was called back to work. I had just returned from the first site when I found you. I was very impressed with the Guilford Courthouse Museum and Park but, quite frankly, I was over-stimulated, overwhelmed by all I saw. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue to the other locations, so coming across you and James was a welcome distraction. Now, where are we going and when do you want to leave?”

  “I’m not sure.” Simon put the colorful advertising map next to his archaic black-inked parchment and looked for further parallels. He tore more pieces of napkin, transferring his reference points to those on the advertising map. “I’m supposed to meet a friend. He said he would leave a note for me. Actually, he said ‘notes’ for me. I have no idea where to look for them and…I’m…well, I guess I’m getting a bit overwhelmed myself. You, my dear young lady, are a Godsend. With your help, I have at least found the general location of my, shall we say, rendezvous. I’m supposed to meet him this evening, or at the latest, at the break of dawn tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly, the blush rushing from my neck to my cheeks.

  “You’re thanking me? It is I who am thanking you. What are you thanking me for?”

  I giggled like a schoolgirl in embarrassment. “For calling me a young lady and being sincere when you said it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been called that with a straight face. Now, changing the subject, who is your friend? Can we call him?”

  “No, Leonard doesn’t have a telephone. He just pops in—is that the right phrase?—when he feels like it. He is a terribly brilliant man and sometimes forgets that we aren’t as quick as he is. There’s no telling what form his notes will take either. Do you think you could take me to this place?” he asked as he pointed to a spot on the colored, commercial map.

  Frankie arrived with the two bowls of cherry pie a la mode, a small pitcher of hot water, and a basket of assorted tea bags. “I don’t mean to rush you, and I’m not, but I wanted to remind you that it’s Halloween and some strange characters will be prowling the area as soon as it gets dark… and that’s not too long from now. I hope you remembered to lock your car.”

  I reached into my pocket for the keys and pushed the button. The electronic notes indicated that if it hadn’t been locked before, it was now. Simon jumped at the ‘peep peep’ noise. “Thanks for reminding me. Go ahead and bring me the check. We’ll be leaving as soon as we’re done with dessert.”

  Simon picked up his fork and took a bite of ice cream. “Frozen custard? Is that what you meant when you ordered pie a la mode?”

  “Well, this is probably ice cream. I haven’t heard of frozen custard in ages. Sometimes they use frozen yogurt instead, but either way, it sure kicks up the taste experience a notch or two.”

  Simon plunged his fork into the ice cream and took three big bites in rapid succession. “Watch out for brain freeze,” I cautioned just as he dropped the fork and slapped his hand to his forehead, his eyes squeezed tight in pain. “Don’t try to talk; just take a sip of tea. Oops, no tea yet. Here,” I poured plain hot water into the remains of his tea from our late lunch, “sip this so it’ll thaw out your brain cells.”

  Simon obeyed and breathed slowly and deeply to try to contain his pain. I wanted to tell him that he looked like a woman doing the Lamaze breathing technique for labor, but I decided it was better to let him suffer in silence. He didn’t need to groan at my bad jokes, too. Of course, I doubt my little foreign friend had ever heard of the Lamaze method. He didn’t look like a family man. “Better?” I asked softly.

  “Yes, thank you. I doubt I will ever do that again,” he said emphatically. He turned his bowl around and eased a piece of the cherry pie onto his fork. He savored it, then pointed to the map and asked, “So, would it be possible for you to take me here in that little car of yours?”

  “It’s my daughter’s car, but there shouldn’t be a problem.” I looked at where he had placed the torn napkin marker on the advertising map. “Hey, that’s Hanging Rock Park! I’ve heard about that place. It has an awesome rock formation there. I can’t remember what it’s called, but it looks like someone pressed a big thumb under a hill and pushed a chunk of it straight up.”

  Frankie came up, the ever-present carafe of hot water in hand. “It’s called a monadnock. That’s an Indian name meaning isolated mountain. I heard the land on the top is supposed to be sacred ground. The park service must not think it’s too sacred, though. This one,” she pointed to the area we had marked on the map, “is still accessible on foot by a hiking trail. We have some park flyers on the wall by the bathrooms. If
you’re going up there, it might be handier to have one of those detailed maps rather than this,” she said, pointing to the advertising map we were using.

  I pushed away from the table and groaned as I stood up, putting my more-than-ample weight on my arthritic feet. I took a few more steps toward the bathroom and said, “I’ll be right back; it might be a while before I get to use indoor plumbing again.”

  I studied the reflection in the mirror as I washed ice cream off my hands. You’re not too decrepit-looking for being close to—oh, how can that be?—sixty years old. Remember when you were a kid? You thought you’d be parked in a rocking chair at sixty, crocheting doilies, just waiting to die. Here you are today, thousands of miles from home, traipsing around North Carolina with what appears to be a treasure map, and a couple—no, you’re down to only one—mysterious foreigner looking for who knows what, using the flimsiest of clues: an old piece of parchment with odd scribbling on it. Cripes, you’re even volunteering to drive wherever to find whatever!

  I know men go through mid-life crises, but for me to do this is ridiculous. I don’t have anything to prove! I have half a mind to cancel this crazy mission.

  I walked out of the bathroom and there was Simon, looking as happy as a four-year-old about to open Christmas presents. He strutted up to me with his arm held out for mine. “Shall we?” he asked.

  “We shall,” I replied, “why not?”

  Ӂ

  I estimated the drive to the park should take us just over an hour, but after ten minutes, the heavy silence made it feel as if I’d already traveled a full day. Neither of us was in the mood for conversation, and I didn’t want to play disc jockey on the radio, searching for a decent station.

  Although he wasn’t doing anything wrong, it felt odd riding next to Simon. I guess it was because I was sitting so close to someone I wasn’t related to and barely knew. At least he didn’t stink. Actually, he had a distinctive herbal aroma about him that was quite pleasant. It reminded me of playing on my backyard swing as a child. He smelled of mulberry leaves in summer, dusty bark, and sisal rope, with some kiddy sweat thrown in to round out the perfume. And, now that I was aware of it, the odd, complex scent was having a calming effect on me.

  Simon kept looking out the window—for clues, I suppose. I had to keep my eye on the road and watch for highway signs. A late afternoon shower had made this gold and copper-leafed landscape appear severely clear, eerily bright in contrast to the gray sky above us and the intrusive dark road—slick, shiny, and sinuous—in front of us. I laughed: at least I didn’t have to worry about a moose jumping out in front of us like in Alaska.

  What I did see were rows of headstones on either side of the narrow road, and not just in one town, but in several. The two-lane highway actually bisected graveyards! I thought it was extremely disrespectful at first, but then realized that the communities were actually encompassing those who had died, keeping them in their daily lives. An interesting concept I never would have considered. This part of the country was definitely different from anywhere I had lived.

  Ӂ

  The entrance to Hanging Rock Park was well marked and easy to find with the GPS navigator built into my smartphone. As soon as we stopped, Simon bolted out of the car. He tried the front door of the visitor center, but it was locked. No one was on duty—it had closed at five. Simon peered through the glass, craning his neck, searching for clues.

  I left him there and proceeded to the elaborate bulletin board on the sidewalk—an unattended booth adorned with colorful posters about wildflowers, the trails, and the region’s history. It looked to me like a good place to start. A handmade poster was pinned to the upper left corner of the kiosk. The unusual pins securing it, brass I think, had strange little marks all around the heads.

  “Hey, look here, Simon,” I called out, “It’s Mona Lisa. At least there’s someone here to greet us.”

  Simon scurried over and nudged me aside so he was standing directly in front of the handbill-sized poster of the classic smiling maiden. If he hadn’t been so intent on what he was doing, I would have called him positively rude. “Well?” I asked.

  “Leonard did it, I’m sure he did. Now I know I’m on the right path! Hmm, I believe I need to go that way,” he said. He carefully pulled out the pins and looked at the etchings on the heads.

  “Why don’t you look on the undersides, too,” I suggested.

  Simon turned them over and beamed with approval, but not at me. “Thank you very much for your assistance,” he said curtly. “I take it you can find your way back.” He turned away from me and strutted across the parking lot to the first paved foot trail, head held high, oblivious of anything other than his quest.

  I was stunned, speechless for a whole thirty seconds, and then unexpected anger flooded in.

  “Whoa, dude. Would you at least tell me what this is all about?” I started to run after him, then stopped, disgusted with myself.

  I hated the idea of chasing after a man, any man, but there was such a feeling of incompleteness in all of this, it literally squeezed my gut. I guessed what I needed was closure or finality or something like that. For some reason, there was a tenuous attachment to either this strange little man or to the whole oddball mission. I remembered James said he felt the map had something to do with him. I was starting to feel the same way, that it—or maybe it was Simon—was part of me, too.

  “Simon,” I called out using my mad mama voice. “Simon, you stop right where you are, mister.” I wasn’t going to run after him, and I wasn’t hysterical, even if I sounded like it. I was thoroughly pissed, though.

  The hostility in my voice worked. Simon stopped, turned around, and looked at me as if I were a squawking parrot. “That’s Master Simon,” he said.

  “No, it’s not. If you were a master,” I said snidely, “you would have figured this out all by yourself, without the help of a mere woman. What in the hell is going on?”

  “Madame,” he began, now using a condescending tone, which I found even ruder than just blowing me off, “I am here to find my destiny. At first light, I will depart this world to join my family. Please, leave me in peace.”

  “Okay,” I said, and turned around to head back to the car. He was being melodramatic and, in my estimation, was looking for me to plead with him to come back, or at least ask him for details. Not gonna happen.

  I continued walking towards the little purple Prius, surreptitiously watching Simon’s reflection in the car door window. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me turn around to watch him, but I was getting a perverse pleasure seeing his image fidget. I could tell he wanted to come back and say something else to me, but his pride was a lot bigger than he was.

  Rats! Now it was my turn to be antsy. I had reached the car and I would have to get in—which would mean losing sight of his reflected image—or remain standing alongside it like an idiot—which would make it look as if I were waiting for him to come back. Two breaths later though, it didn’t make a difference. Simon was walking slowly; slowly walking away from me.

  Okay, if Simon was determined to meet his family in the great beyond that was his choice. But, dang it, I couldn’t let someone commit suicide, no matter how justified he thought it was. And, no matter how crazy he was, he shouldn’t believe that jumping off a mountain or whatever would be the solution to his problems.

  “Who is crazier, the crazy person or the crazy person who follows him?” I grumbled as I put on my coat. I started a little mental checklist of what I should take with me. “I’ll need my coat, water... Heck, I’ll just take the whole backpack; that should do it.

  “Okay, I don’t want to take the keys with me. Leah said she always leaves them under the right rear bumper, so I’ll put them there.” I stashed the keys on top of the muddy body part that connected to the plastic bumper. “Okay, a quick call to Leah first. Rats, I’m still talking to myself.”

  I dialed Leah’s cell phone number and got her voice mail. “Hi, I’m not here s
o leave a message or call back. Bye.” Great, she wasn’t available so I wouldn’t have to explain myself to her, at least not now.

  “Hi Leah; it’s Mom. I won’t be coming home tonight. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow, depending on how the day goes. Don’t work too hard.” I winced at saying the wrong words on the recording. ‘Don’t work too hard’ were flash words for her, at least when I said them. I quickly added, “I love you. I’ll call you later, Honey.”

  And I would call her later and tell her what was going on—unless I saw her in person first. Right now, I didn’t want to tell her about my emotional morning at the museum and picking up a hitchhiker in 18th-century garb. If I told her that I’d involved myself in another spontaneous escapade, she’d add another hash mark to the ‘irresponsible’ side of my already lopsided good/not-so-good judgment scorecard. That would mean I’d be on the unbalanced side again, at least in her opinion.

  Whatever—I had other, more important concerns, and they didn’t involve what someone thought of me. I was probably the only one around who cared for that goofy-looking little man who called himself Master Simon. I pulled on my backpack and adjusted the straps to distribute the weight across my shoulders. “Okay, suicide prevention team ‘A,’ ready, willing, and hopefully able, to stop one lonely little man from jumping off a cliff into the great beyond.”

  *4 Leonardo the First

  The wind was picking up, whispering harsh, unintelligible secrets through the trees. The brisk breeze caused the leaves and branches to bump against each other as they noisily tried to find a resting place. This unsolicited but welcomed racket benefitted my situation: I didn’t have to worry about Simon hearing me as I shuffled down the path, stalking him for his own good.

  After the first ten minutes, I could no longer hear the highway noises. The only sounds were natural: the wind in the trees, a creek rushing down a ravine somewhere, and the crunchy-cereal sound of my boots on the granite rubble path.