“No . . . a miniature potbellied pig.”
“Really. Huh. Surely he can’t have got far without being seen.”
I hesitated. Oscar wasn’t “out” to very many of us. As far as I knew, only Sailor, Aidan, and I were aware of his true form. And one or two bad guys he’d gone up against, but I was pretty sure they assumed they’d imagined his natural form due to stress, once they thought back on it.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Calypso said, her eyes kind. “But I can’t help unless I know what kind of creature he is. And I won’t betray a confidence; nor will I be surprised.”
I nodded, sipped my tea, and made a decision. “Oscar isn’t a regular familiar. He was a gift from Aidan. In his natural form, he’s sort of a cross between a goblin and a gargoyle. He’s . . .” Precious, is what he was. If I had been able to cry, I’m sure my eyes would have filled with tears.
A fern frond tapped my shoulder, distracting me. I looked up to see the delicate hanging plant twisting lazily in the breeze from the open window, its trailing arms reaching out.
“Oscar’s a shape-shifter, then?” Calypso said. “How amazing. I wasn’t sure those truly existed—I’ve never actually seen one.”
“He’s real, all right. But he’s disappeared, and I think something magical is going on.” I told her the story of the tree, and Sebastian’s death, and Oscar’s disappearance.
“You say the last time you saw him he was up in the tree?”
I nodded.
“And it’s a California live oak?” She brought a large book of trees over to the table and showed me a picture.
“Yes, that’s the one. Quercus agrifolia.” That must have been where Conrad and his friends got the name, Ms. Quercus.
Calypso nodded. “Agrifolia refers to the sharp points on the leaves, as opposed to the oak trees pictured in most European art, for example. They can live for hundreds of years.”
“I have the sense this one’s pretty old. Its trunk is massive. Are there any stories associated with oak trees that you know? Any folklore I should consider?”
She sipped her tea, fragrant of cinnamon and apple. “There are several stories out of Europe, mostly about trees taking vengeance. There’s the chained oak of Staffordshire, for example. . . .”
“I heard about that one. But nothing closer, nothing with regards to the Quercus agrifolia?”
“Around here it’s the redwoods that really attract that kind of folklore. They send up faery circles, that kind of thing. And of course you know about the dangers associated with sleeping under flowering brugmansia. But no, I’m not familiar with oaks being particularly supernatural.”
“What if, for example, a person’s ashes were buried at its base and soaked into the tree . . . ? Could that person’s energy become part of the heartwood?”
Again, I found myself transfixed by Calypso’s steady gaze. She seemed to pause before she spoke, which had the effect of making me listen that much harder.
“Trees are living, responsive beings. I know many people would argue with me, but they have souls and personalities, just as do the footed creatures. But because they draw sustenance and are connected so directly to the land, they are affected by it, just as we are by what we eat and see and experience.”
I nodded.
“What kind of person are we talking about? Who did these ashes belong to?”
“I think . . . it’s possible it was someone accused of being a witch, who was burned at the stake centuries ago.”
“Yes, I suppose that could be. I’ve heard of a few cases in which a spirit seeks sanctuary in the heartwood of a tree. Or in the case of hanging trees, when sleeping people are haunted by the pain of those killed there. But becoming part of the wood . . . this person would have to have been very powerful. Have you spoken with the woodsfolk?”
“I haven’t. Oscar was my only go-between with them. Could you introduce me?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have that kind of power. Not anymore. I’m good with plants, but that’s a whole different world. Aidan would be your best source for that.”
“I know. But I can’t trust him. He’s trying to foist another creature on me for a familiar rather than helping to save Oscar. I don’t know what’s going through his head.”
“Interesting. He must not think it worth the price to bring Oscar back.”
“It’s not his decision; it’s mine. And Oscar’s worth the price.”
“But Aidan holds power over him. He’s still the one in charge of your Oscar, even though you’d like to think he’s your familiar.”
“How does he keep him beholden?”
“He must hold a marker of some sort. Probably some part of Oscar.”
“What do you mean, part of him?”
“How does one explain Aidan?” Calypso said, sipping her tea and looking out the window to the garden. “He’s not a sociopath. . . .”
Oh goody, I thought. At least there was that.
“But . . . he’s ruthless. He gets no joy out of hurting people, not like a psychopath, but he won’t pull a punch, either. He does what he believes is necessary.”
“Necessary for what?”
“To maintain control, his position of power. I don’t know what he’s after in the long run. I really don’t. Like most of us, I doubt he knows himself. But in the short run . . . he’s all about doing what’s necessary to maintain his position.”
I pondered Aidan’s motives as I looked through the window. Outside in the garden, I could see Bronwyn wandering through the tall tomato vines. She seemed to fit right in here, in her flowing tunic, flowers in her hair. I always thought she fit in perfectly on Haight Street, but looking at Bronwyn now, I realized that she would probably fit in perfectly no matter where she was. With the possible exception of the suburbs.
“So tell me more about Oscar. He’s a cross between a goblin and a gargoyle, you say? I’ve never heard of that.”
“He’s got gray-green skin, a monkeylike snout, big bat ears, humanlike hands but clawed feet.”
“Are his wings feathered, batlike, or segmented like an insect?”
“He doesn’t have wings.”
“No wings? You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I mean . . . wouldn’t I have noticed them?”
“Sometimes they’re subtle. They might blend in, get tucked in, sort of?”
I thought back. On the one hand, Oscar never ceased to amaze me. But I had held him often enough; surely I would have noticed such a thing.
I shook my head. “I really, really, can’t imagine I would have missed them.”
She rose and went into the front room, which was covered floor to ceiling in bookshelves. “Let me see . . . wings, witches . . . ah, here we are. Witch’s familiars.”
She thumbed through, looked in the index, and finally flipped it open and turned it around to face me. She tapped on a picture that looked rather like Oscar, though not quite. The skin was wrong, and the size was off. And it had nothing like Oscar’s ugly, adorable expression. But overall . . . I could see it.
“Anything like this?” Calypso asked.
“Very much like that,” I said.
“The cursed gargoyles—a sad case. I never knew it was true.”
“So you’re not only a botanist, but also an expert on gargoyles?”
“Oh, hardly,” she said, waving me off with a chuckle. “Though I do climb Notre Dame every time I’m in Paris, just to see all those marvelous creatures up there, overlooking the city.”
“Apparently his father was a goblin. When his mother shifted . . .”
“Oh.” Calypso blushed prettily and chuckled. “Oh, my, my, my. The mind does reel, doesn’t it?”
“I think it involved an egg and a faery circle.”
“Well, I should think so.”
“So, even though he’s only half gargoyle, you think he should have wings?” I thought of how Oscar had cackled when he saw the scene with the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz.
“I’d be willing to bet on it. Wings are an extremely dominant gene.” She got up and poured more hot water into our mugs. “If they’re missing, there’s a reason for it.”
Chapter 16
“You’re saying what exactly? That Aidan took Oscar’s wings?”
Calypso stirred a dollop of honey into her tea but said nothing.
“Why would he take his wings? That’s . . . horrifying.”
“That would keep him beholden to Aidan. Right?”
I had known Oscar worked for Aidan. And then Aidan “gave” him to me, which seemed wrong at some deep level. But . . . I guess I had come to think that Oscar really cared for me, that he was with me for reasons other than being forced to do so. This made him sound like a slave.
“How do I get his wings back?” I asked.
She let out a silent whistle, her eyebrows raised as if to say, No way. “Aidan doesn’t give up things like that. That’s his leverage. And if word got out that he made an exception in your case, or in Oscar’s, the others wouldn’t take him seriously anymore. You know how the magical world is, Lily. Lots of saving face, making symbolic gestures, putting out the right image.” She blew on her tea. “Frankly, I’m just as glad to be rid of the whole lot of ’em. Except for my plants, of course.”
While we were speaking, a long frond of the hanging fern wound itself around her arm. So slowly I didn’t notice at first, but now it had wrapped itself several times around and seemed to hold on in a loving fashion.
I spied Bronwyn strolling near the old-fashioned beehives, trying to peek inside one.
“I think I’ve kept you to myself long enough. I’ll bet Bronwyn would love to compare honeys with you. She has a special source up in the Oakland Hills somewhere. Just one more thing: Where do you think Aidan keeps those wings?”
“Lily, listen to me: You can’t go around stealing things from Aidan.”
“He stole them from Oscar.”
“Oscar probably forfeited them for some reason, in exchange for something. But be that as it may, stealing from Aidan is a definite no-no. I know you’re strong, but . . . you’re not that strong.”
“I’m getting stronger every day. And at the moment, I’ve got plenty of rage. So, does he have a warehouse somewhere? Where does he even live?” For some reason this last thought had never occurred to me. Aidan was so tied up with the Wax Museum in my mind, I never thought about him actually sleeping somewhere.
Calypso shook her head. “I’m not sure I’d tell you, even if I knew. And I really don’t have any idea.”
“No clue where he might hide valuable items? If Oscar’s not his only minion, he must be holding a lot of stuff somewhere.”
“It’s not always that kind of marker. Sometimes it’s a secret, or something much more subtle.”
“Okay, but . . .”
“All I can tell you is that Aidan always used to enjoy hiding things out in plain sight.”
“In plain sight?”
“He finds it . . . funny. Entertaining, I suppose. Now, shall we go talk about bees?”
* * *
An hour later we bid Calypso good-bye and climbed into my Mustang. Just as we were about to leave, Calypso mentioned she had decided to start offering botanical classes again.
“I’d love to take a class like that!” exclaimed Bronwyn.
“Me too,” I said, thinking how much fun it would be to talk plants and herbs for hours at a time.
“Funny you should mention that, Lily,” said Calypso. “I was actually wondering . . . Have you ever considered teaching?”
“Oh, I . . . uh . . . not really,” I stammered in reply.
“You have so much knowledge.”
“Oh!” gushed Bronwyn. “What a wonderful idea! Lily, you’d be wonderful.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m still learning myself. I don’t know what I could possibly teach to others.”
“How about methods of brewing and spell casting?” offered Calypso.
“Or how you carve and consecrate talismans? Or make spirit bottles?” suggested Bronwyn.
“I think you are more accomplished than you know,” said Calypso.
I could feel myself blushing. I knew a lot about plants, true, but Calypso could blow me out of the water, botanicals-wise. Still and all, I supposed she was right: Though I still had a great deal to learn, I certainly knew more than your average bear about charms and brews.
“I worry about teaching people just enough to hurt themselves,” I said. “Witchcraft can be dangerous, especially if someone attempts something and then turns out to have more power than they know. I say this from experience. Spell casting is all about intention and effecting change; what if someone is great at intention but gets the details wrong and hurts herself?”
“When you and I grew up, this was all secret knowledge, and for good reason, to keep people from doing exactly that—hurting themselves or others,” said Calypso. “But these days, anyone can get access to this kind of information over the Internet if they look hard enough. The point of classes would be to train them properly, so they don’t hurt anyone. And you don’t have to teach the tough stuff, nothing that would be potentially harmful. Just casting spells of confidence and good fortune, that kind of thing.”
“Oh, Lily,” put in Bronwyn. “I really think you would be splendid.”
“Just think about it,” said Calypso with a warm smile. “I’ll start the classes up again in September, so you have a couple of months to consider.”
“Well, thank you. I’m flattered,” I said. “And thanks again for sharing all your information with me. I really appreciate it.”
As we pulled out, Calypso left me with one more remark: “Don’t underestimate Aidan, Lily. It . . . won’t turn out well.”
* * *
That night, Bronwyn, Maya, Duke, Conrad, and I approached the Academy of Sciences building. I was stunned at the size of the crowd. Clearly, I had underestimated the appeal of a frog-themed cocktail party for the residents of San Francisco.
“I can’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve been here!” said Bronwyn. “When my kids were young, we used to come all the time. Duke, you and I need to bring the grandkids and make a day of it.”
“That’s a deal,” said Duke. “Don’t think I’ve been here since my Miriam was a tyke. Place was different back then.”
“I take it it’s a new building?” I asked.
“Yes. It says here”—Maya read from a brochure she had downloaded from the Internet—“that one critic called the building a ‘blazingly uncynical embrace of the Enlightenment values of truth and reason’ and a ‘comforting reminder of the civilizing function of great art in a barbaric age.’”
The five of us gawked at the building.
“Huh,” I said.
“Can’t argue with that.” Duke nodded.
“Well written,” Conrad agreed. “Art as a civilizing function in a barbaric age. Dude.”
“Check out the sod roof,” said Bronwyn, pointing to the roofline. “Personally, I’m a little unclear on how that fits with Enlightenment values, but it sure fits in well with my values. Funny how the traditional ways are coming back in vogue, right?”
“‘Coming back’ might be a stretch,” said Maya. “Not a lot of hobbit dwellings in the Bay Area.”
“Hobbit dwellings?” I asked.
“Sod-roofed buildings remind me of Hobbiton.” She smiled. “Or have I been reading too much Tolkien?”
“No such thing as too much Tolkien,” Conrad said.
“I suppose it does look a little hobbitlike on the roof,” I said. “But this place is massive. I’ve seen sod roofs used in
parts of Africa and rural Europe—eventually, if they deteriorate, they simply go back to the earth rather than into landfills.”
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Bronwyn sighed. “Circle of life and all that.”
Her words brought to mind Sebastian Crowley. I’d said something similar to him, and the thought had resurfaced when Conrad and I were discussing the old oak tree. The circle of life, things returning from whence they came . . .
As crowded as the terrace in front of the museum was, the space inside was still more jam-packed. We stood in a clump at one side, trying not to jostle others. Looking about, I took in the crowd, which seemed to be made up primarily of upwardly mobile professionals.
“Oh my,” said Bronwyn with a glance at Maya. “Look at all the handsome young men.”
“Thanks, Bronwyn, but I’m fine just as I am,” Maya said.
Ever since Bronwyn had started seeing Duke, she had become a world-class matchmaker. Maya and I had promised each other we would be patient with our friend’s newfound interest in our love lives, assuming that Bronwyn was motivated by wanting us to be as happy as she was. To Bronwyn’s credit, she was the first to say she had been happy to make her own way and was quick to acknowledge that a woman didn’t need a man at her side to be fulfilled. Still, she wanted to see all her friends in happy relationships.
“I’m just saying, if a person were young and single, they could do worse than to find another young single person at a gathering like this. Shared interests and all that . . .”
“Shared interest in frogs?” Maya was young but jaded, a forty-year-old brain in a twentysomething’s body.
“You don’t like frogs?” Conrad asked. “Dude, I love the little guys.”
“I’ve got nothing against frogs. I’m just not sure how much I could commit to the theme, conversation-wise.”
The crowd in the building kept getting bigger, and our group backed off, finding a little breathing room in a corner near the corridor leading to the stairway.
“Stand back, my friends. Duke and I are going to fight our way to the bar,” said Bronwyn, putting her arm through Duke’s. “You three go on and check out the exhibit—we’ll find you. Margaritas all around? Speak now or forever hold your sobriety.”
A Vision in Velvet: A Witchcraft Mystery Page 19
