by W. Peever
"Ragamuffin!" Ellen scolded. "Did I raise you like that? They do have irons in London?"
Charlie looked down. Yes, he should have ironed. His mother had little fashion sense but what she did believe in was looking presentable. Still, he didn't want to be lectured about it.
"Um, I'm not sure if you noticed but Bailey's shirt says 'Godsmack'. Don't you think she deserves more attention than I do, Mom?"
"Oh," Ellen said, showing Bailey attention. "She looks wonderful. And Godsmack is a band, Charlie."
"Actually Mrs Burrows, the peanuts weren't much of a breakfast at all," offered Bailey, unsubtly changing the subject. The smell of burned bacon and toast wafted out the open door.
"Oh my goodness. Breakfast!" Ellen turned toward the house and rushed back to the kitchen, scooping up her apron as she went.
"You would still be hungry," snickered Charlie.
"And you'd better pretend to be ravenous. Your mother's gone to a lot of trouble cooking for us," Bailey retorted defensively. "And would it have hurt you so much to iron your shirt? You know how your mother is." Charlie felt a pang of guilt. Bailey couldn't resist. "Oh, and Charlie, better wipe that lipstick off your cheek unless you want to answer a lot more awkward questions." She laughed hard as she entered the house.
Mick smacked Charlie on the back, a gesture that meant 'I'm here for you, mate, but you'd better learn how to take your lumps from women.' They went to follow when both suddenly felt weird. Something came over them, a thick fog settling in their brains.
"You know, before we go in I think a walk to the woodpile would be great." Charlie recited in an almost robotic voice.
"That sounds like a wonderful stroll," answered Mick cheerily.
The two friends linked hands and skipped merrily into the woods, humming Mary Had a Little Lamb until they were out of sight. On reaching the woodpile the fog lifted. And here were the twins, rolling on the ground laughing hysterically. Cillie was high in the tree, giggling.
"That was adorable; I never knew you two buddies were so close." It was Marley's voice, as he barely cracked a wry smile, arms crossed over his chest, his low taunt resonating in the trees around them and still ringing as Charlie and Mick quickly dropped their hands to their sides. Cillie's Influencearian powers had caused their brainstorms.
"Sorry for the theatrics. You really can't blame us, Charlie. We need some amusement, and after all we're going to be trapped here in this boring little town until you go back," sang Cillie from the bowers of the weeping willow.
"These three," Marley gestured at the rest of the guard, "hatched the puerile plan to get your attention. Personally, I thought it was unprofessional—but very, very funny, you must admit."
"As long as you were amused…" Mick said under his breath. He and Charlie glared up at Cillie, who should know better.
"Now you boys," Cillie began. "You need to learn how to block out an Influencearian. I didn't even have to try that hard on you two. You should have recognized the foggy brain sensation and tried to fight me. Consider this a training exercise." She smiled down at them, hovering among the branches.
"Whatever!" said Mick, growing from impatient to angry in a flash. "Just tell us what you need to tell us so we can get inside. Charlie's mom is going to worry." For the first time in his life Mick felt his actions mattered to an adult, and he was not going to start off disappointing his new 'mom'.
Marley squinted down at the adolescent boy. "We are here for your protection, all of us. We are only as effective as you are cooperative. Your best defense is letting us know where you are at all times. I have rented a pond side cottage down the street. Keep in touch." He smiled, this time almost sincerely.
Cillie floated down from the tree. "Bailey needs weapons training. That dagger of hers is not going to help if we get into a real scrape." The beautiful woman reached behind her and handed Charlie a bow and quiver of arrows. "She should practice every day, as you should with your sword, Charlie, and you with your staff," giving Mick an apologetic glance. "If you need guidance, ask us." She smiled sweetly at the boys. Charlie couldn't help smiling back dumbly a few moments before turning to leave.
"What, no skipping?" quipped the twins behind them, quickening Charlie and Mick's exit.
A new breakfast was on the stove when the boys entered from storing their weapons in the woodpile. Bailey poked at browning rashers of bacon in the old, cast iron pan. Ellen's cooking had not improved, confirmed by Charlie and Mick's eyes following their noses to the trashcan. The added aromas of hot percolating coffee and fresh-baked buttermilk biscuits promised better.
Today was their day of rest and settling in, and getting to know the place all over again. They hoped tomorrow would start off their real vacation.
Dawn had been creeping stealthily forward in the house for many hours, and now streams of light assaulted Charlie's bedroom window. From beneath the thin cotton sheets he pulled a pillow over his head in a last-ditch effort to stay dreaming. A loud rattling at his doorknob rendered the effort useless.
"Charlie! Open the door! Since when do you have a key that locks your bedroom in the first place?" From what he could make out, Bailey's muffled voice sounded annoyed.
Charlie blinked a few times, then squinted, letting just enough light penetrate to find his glasses. He looked over at Mick, still snoring. Finding the old skeleton key was a spot of luck. It stopped Bailey barging into his room when he was trying to sleep, or worse, changing. She still didn't see a problem coming into his room when he was in his skivvies. He, on the other hand…
"We'll be down in a minute!" Charlie yelled. There was silence from outside the door, then a loud clomping of black boots and jingling of Bailey's ring belt, slowly fading.
Mick attempted to blink away the sunlight pouring into the room. "Nutter, that one," he said, managing a faint smile.
"I'll say. But what can I do? She's determined to follow me around like a lost puppy dog." Mick's rough laugh in response drew a more indulgent one from Charlie, and a slight pang of guilt in taking the devotion of his lifetime friend for granted.
"Either that, or mother you."
Charlie couldn't think what his roommate meant. He had no doubt Bailey would get one back by loudly noticing in front of everyone how he was dressed up to greet Tillie at the airport.
It was Sunday morning, as shown by Ellen rushing around the kitchen like a mad woman, hair still half in rollers. Her nightdress with the cutesie puppy face swished around her ankles as she moved between ironing her Sunday-best outfit and flipping pancakes. The Burrows family was Episcopalian, which meant pretty much nothing to Charlie. He went to church with his mother on the Sundays she had off, but there were not many of those. It was a shock she was making them all go this morning. Charlie, unlike most of the world, knew praying would not do anyone any good. The Gods were in a totally different dimension, too occupied with their own civil war to bother with trivial human concerns.
"Charlie!" Ellen's shrill voice raised in urgency made him flinch. "Could you find my red clutch bag that goes with this dress? I can't remember the last time I saw it, and Avery…" She caught herself as she had over his teacher, remembering students weren't supposed to know first names of authority figures. "I mean, Reverend Sinclair, is escorting me to coffee after the service, and I need to find my clutch." She turned back to ironing, but not before Charlie saw an odd smile on her face.
Escorting? Episcopalian priests, Charlie knew, are allowed to date. That strange, girlish smile…a breath caught halfway down his throat, raising a short coughing fit. His mom was dating? But she couldn't cheat on his father…or was it cheating? His mother didn't know the missing part of their family, the beloved Daniel Burrows, was not deceased but suspended between time and space. And when he returned…it was times like this that Charlie felt trapped by the laws of the Manserian Order. It wasn't fair that he couldn't tell his mother about the Nine Worlds, the Gods, the Monsters…or that her long lost husband still lived.
"
I think I saw it in the closet, Ellen!" Bailey called from the hallway, shooting Charlie a look that clearly told him to take a chill pill. "Let me go check."
"Oh, thank you, dear. It's good to have you back, Bailey. True, my grocery budget has zoomed out of all proportion this summer, but still good to have you all back. I see Charlie had the foresight to dress for the occasion, but Mick, you really mustn't attend church in your pajamas." Mrs Burrows scolded, wryly amused despite herself. The three children had skillfully avoided church-going with excuses ranging from well-faked illness to lame ones like forgetting to iron pants. This time Ellen made sure everything was set to go the night before, down to taking the boys' temperatures. "That was rhetorical, Mick. Now grab a biscuit and go get dressed. I've set aside a suit for you; not brand new, but respectable. Now shoo!" Ellen swept him out of the kitchen with the broom she was using on the crumbs under the kitchen table. Mick smiled the whole way up the staircase.
Chapter Three The Runic Box
Ellen drove her brand new, navy blue Honda Pilot silently up the hill to a big parking area. They were late, and quickly climbed out of the car to run the distance of a full city block to the church. The loyal male parishioners who served as greeters had gone, and muffled sounds of the organ and choir came from inside. Odors of old potpourri and carpet cleaner clung to the outer corridor, conjuring vivid memories of Bailey splashing holy water all over Charlie the spring they turned ten; Reverend Frank was so outraged he made them spend the next Saturday cleaning the church. The scented air freshener never came out of the clothes they wore that day.
The four hunched, hoping to not be noticed, as they slowly opened the old wooden doors to this inner sanctum of Christianity. The ancient wooden floor creaked at each inch it gave up to them. Luckily, the noise from the squeaky hinges of the immense door was drowned out by the choir, now revved up to full volume. It appeared they had eluded the attention of the entire congregation as they slipped into the closest empty pew at the back. The crescendoing choir reached out their hands to the sky, a final sustained note reverberating off a golden chandelier overhead. The congregation turned their heads from the choir to the alter as if they were one giant creature, and rose from their benches as the new reverend, that Charlie had never met, greeted the congregation.
"You are all most welcome." His voice was formal but pleasant, reassuring in a tone that left you feeling safe, as if the walls of this church would protect you from any misfortune. The voice fit perfectly with the man: strong jaw, perfectly groomed chestnut hair, and the hint of a beard. Ellen and Bailey sat entranced by this ruggedly handsome man with the thick Scottish accent, clad in the white and red robes of the church. "I am so pleased that in this day of science and tivoed American Idol that we could all join together, to worship and pray for peace today." Low titters of acknowledgment came from the congregation. "And additionally gratified that the Burrows family were able to make their belated entrance so quietly."
Heads turned to look the latecomers over in a combination of amusement and admonishment. "All right, enough," said the Reverend in a tone of command to reclaim the attention of his flock. "Who among you would cast the first stone? I see a few among you have joined us for the first time. Welcome. Now, let us pray."
Mick took quick advantage of the bowed heads to take a jab at Bailey. "Hey Bailey!" She did not lift her head. "Psst! Bailey! Bail…"
She opened her eyes and glared at him. "What!" she hissed.
"So your type is middle aged priests." He laughed, but the laugh was hiding a question behind it.
"Shut up. You're an idiot." She turned her head back, still bent down. Mick turned to Charlie for approval but he merely screwed up his face and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, what are you talking about, and why do you care? Mick spent the rest of the hour in brooding silence.
The service ended with an encore by the choir of a variation of the same song. Or at least it sounded like the same song to a fidgety Charlie.
Bailey shot a look at Mick, and then with a smile she turned to Mrs Burrows. "Wow, he's cute! Way to go!"
Ellen turned pink and smiled. "We are friends, Avery and…Father Sinclair and myself. When you get to my age, Bailey, a good conversation with a man who has similar interests is far more intriguing than a hunk!"
Charlie almost choked on his strawberry chewing gum at the word hunk. Bailey, continuing to ignore both boys, smiled and leaned close to the woman who was like another mother. "But it doesn't hurt, now does it!" She winked and shared a quiet titter with the older woman.
Father Sinclair was going through the shaking-hands ritual as everyone exited to the parking lot. Charlie couldn't help but notice the gaggle of women waiting to grab a word with him, and grab a hold of part of him at the same time. Mrs Burrows had ensured her party would be the very last in line. From somewhere up ahead, beyond the sea of hats and balding pates, came the resounding tones of Father Sinclair: "I would love to come to tea with you, Mr and Mrs Hendrickson. Yes, we should absolutely make a date to do just that. Alas, I have plans with Ellen Burrows and her children today." The collection of thirty-something single women, waiting for their chance to pounce, scowled toward Ellen and drifted off en masse in a collective huff.
Finally, there were only them facing the Father. "Ellen," he sighed, extending his arms and gripping Charlie's mother's shoulders firmly. "I am so glad you have this Sunday off from the hospital. Last week I was utterly depressed, deprived of your smile. Then again, I am being utterly selfish, am I not? Better saving lives rather than brightening mine up."
Something about him reminded Charlie of Guy Smiley from Sesame Street, not least his brightly indefatigable attitude showing off rows of pearly white teeth. "And this must be Charlie, Mick, and the beautiful Bailey!" He slapped Mick on the back with astonishing power for a man of the cloth. Charlie couldn't imagine him ever turning the other cheek if slapped himself, or inheriting the earth as one of God's meek creatures.
"Now, my housekeeper, Mrs Palmer, is preparing a great spread in the rectory for us. Come along." The reverend closed the large hardwood church doors, then swept off with a brisk step toward an adjoining colonial house, whitewashed and beautifully trimmed with glossy black shutters.
The interior of the rectory too was breathtaking, an antique collector's dream, ornately decorated with seaman's chests and other priceless furniture; the walls paneled with rare mahogany, a relic of a bygone age. More like a living museum, each piece was accompanied with a brass identifying plaque. An older woman, mid-sixties, came down the spiraling staircase, holding a shimmering silver tea set. Her moonlight gray hair was pulled into a tight bun that smoothed the wrinkles of her weathered face, indicative of a life spent outdoors. Electric blue eyes sparkled like those of a much younger woman and darted from one to another as she sized-up each guest.
"Mrs Palmer, your timing is eerily perfect as usual. These are our guests; Mrs Ellen Burrows you've already met." A large hand came to rest on Charlie's shoulder. "This fine lad is her son Charlie, with his good friends, Bailey and Mick."
Mrs Palmer nodded in their direction and then spoke to Reverend Sinclair in a broad yet somehow cultivated Scottish accent. "I expect you to change your robes before tea, Avery; I won't be caught scrubbing jam out of those all afternoon again."
Reverend Sinclair smiled and shook his head as his housekeeper continued on her way to the atrium. "She has known me since I was, as she would say, knee high to a Shetland pony. I spent my wee years in a huge stone house in Scotland. Father was rarely home, and Mrs Palmer and her husband took care of me. It was, perhaps, a glum childhood—only Allston, my wee brother, and our Sheltie shepherd, Bradley, for company. Mrs Palmer did her best to make it less gloomy, as much as you can a stone building from the Middle Ages." He forced a smile as if emerging from the depths of an emotionally arid place. "Allston and I joined the brotherhood of priests and left Scotland, and the castle to the Palmers. Two years ago Mr Palmer died and Mrs came here so not to be a
lone. She won't live with us as family for fear of wasting away 'like a used-up door rug'—are her words. With all that, she gets very irritated with me when I am late for tea. Shall we?"
The atrium was no less amazing in the same style, wall designs seeming to dance within reach of each other, then mingling together like flames. Huge bay windows lined the western-most wall of the room that overlooked a majestic scene of the rocky Atlantic coast.
"I see some priests, at least, do very well from your oath of poverty," Ellen teased, then attempted to catch herself, "I mean, considering our poverty was so much more…poverty-stricken." Bailey winced, embarrassed for Ellen's sake, her transparent lack of experience in the game of love. As Ellen smiled too-sweetly trying to make up for her gaffe, Charlie felt his stomach reach a little and wished he hadn't stuffed such a big breakfast.
"You are, as always, to the point, Ellen. You leave nothing unsaid." He grasped her hand over the table, somewhat flying in the face of being her spiritual guide and counselor, Charlie thought, a little in shock. "True, we priests lead lives without belongings to be sure, but we are all subject to modern conveniences, are we not? This is not the Middle Ages, after all."
"Maybe I should become a monk then, if this is what the modern church is all about," joked Mick. "I'd love to live in a mansion like this."
"I admit that there are some wonderful perks to working for the big guy," Avery said. "Ah, here we go."
Mrs Palmer entered the room pushing a polished silver waiter's table, topped with small sandwiches with the crusts cut off, tiny savory meat pies, and fresh baking. "Mrs Palmer, are those my favorite cherry turnovers?" She nodded and exited the room. "From our cherry tree…I love the summer harvest. This recipe has been handed down all the way from King Henry the Eighth's kitchen."
