“Then throw a veil of warmth around yourself and go for a walk,” Brig said. “It’s not as if you must let the cold slice through your bones.”
Brighid considered the suggestion. “I think I will,” she said, “and when I get back, I’ll bake fresh bread to go with our dinner.”
Throwing on a long cloak, Brighid stepped out the door, drawing the garment closer as the wind caught and flared the fabric. Centering her thoughts in the heart of her powers, she kindled a fire in her mind, catching its warmth and sending the energy flowing outward to drive back the bitter air.
Surrounded and protected by the radiant glow, Brighid stepped confidently into the snow, which receded at her approach, opening a path before her as she walked. She moved across the meadow toward the smaller pond known locally as Brighid’s Well.
Safely encased in the comforting bubble of energy, she found herself able to appreciate Cailleach’s seasonal handiwork. The creaking of branches frozen solid with ice played counterpoint with the mournful wind flowing through the monochrome landscape. It was not Brighid’s palette of verdant greens, gentle rains, and renewing light, but there was beauty in winter’s art.
Some of the impatient tension she’d felt back at the cottage began to leave her, and Brighid’s thoughts wandered to her sisters’ lighthearted banter. Always competing for the attention of the handsome lads, those two. Let them have Seamus Hennessy and Jimmy O’Halleran, if Brighid were of a mind to play with mortals, which she was not, she’d have set her cap for Michael Donovan . . .
Just then, a blur of motion at the outer limit of her vision made Brighid drop the teasing fantasy and brought her attention back to the here and now. At the edge of the rocks surrounding the well stood a stag holding one foreleg at an unnatural angle.
“There, there now,” Brighid murmured. “Are you hurt, my brother? Come with me to the cottage so that my sister might heal your wound.”
In response, the deer snorted and shook his antlers, prancing agitatedly on three legs.
“Easy,” Brighid said, moving forward cautiously. “You’ll hurt yourself more with that nonsense. I mean you no harm.”
As she advanced, the stag’s nostrils flared nervously. Angling to get herself to one side, Brighid kept talking to the animal in a low, soothing tone. When the cautious advance appeared to be working, Brighid’s confidence increased. Still, the stag watched her with suspicious eyes.
Later, when she would tell the tale, Brighid would say she did not know what startled the deer. It never occurred to her that the animal bolted intentionally to lure her onto the frozen surface of the pond.
As the stag’s hooves lost purchase on the bank, he plunged into the water. Brighid followed, acting purely on instinct, with no thought to her own safety. Drawing nearer the flailing stag, she extended the shield of protective energy, infusing it with the subtle flavors of comfort and calm.
The deer stilled as the bubble spread over it. Brighid’s eyes met those of the wounded animal. Just before they were both pulled under the surface, Brighid heard the words, “Forgive me, Queen of Summer.”
The icy water hit me like a spray of needles. I bolted upright out of bed gasping, my hands clawing at the darkness as I tried to dig my way toward air and light. Four sets of glowing eyes regarded me from the foot of the bed.
Yule let out an inquisitive meow, and Winston stepped forward to butt his head against my side. “It’s okay,” I babbled. “I’m okay. It was just another dream. A really, really, really bad one this time.”
Leaning over Winston, I switched on the lamp and reached for my grimoire. The pen was so used to drawing my nocturnal visions, it almost started without me.
I watched as the images appeared in a series of panels. First a beautiful stone cottage on what looked like a millpond, then a woman walking through a path in the snow, and finally a second, smaller body of water that appeared to be frozen over.
As the scene grew more detailed, something became visible on the ice. Squinting, I realized it was a flailing animal that had fallen through. The woman in my vision was trying to help the . . . what the heck was that thing?
Reaching for the magnifying glass that had become a permanent fixture on the nightstand, I looked closer and gasped when I realized the pen had drawn a deer.
Before I could process the information, Winston bumped my elbow, scaring me half to death and breaking my train of thought.
“Okay, okay, fine,” I said. “Cat food first, transdimensional Fae drama second.”
Starting the day with the sensation of choking to death in freezing water didn’t exactly make me want to throw back the covers and meet the world, but I wasn’t about to risk falling back asleep either.
I ran my hands through what felt like a serious case of bed head and continued to puzzle through the details of the dream as the cats, and I went about our morning routine. One thing I could not shake was the jarring sensation of plunging into freezing water.
While it was still cold in our corner of North Carolina nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, we certainly didn’t have heavy snow on the ground — and that deer my pen drew was not one of the local whitetails. First, the street cats in Raleigh tell Festus the man who met with Chesterfield smelled like a deer and now a deer shows up in one of my dreams?
That image nagged at me — a woman following a deer into a pond. Had I read something like that? Whatever it was, I couldn’t put my finger on it, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
When I finally dragged myself downstairs, Tori greeted me with the words, “Happy Winter Solstice!”
Feeling like a dropout from the local witch academy, I said, “The what?”
“Uh, hello?” she said. “The longest night and the shortest day of the year? Midwinter? Countdown to spring begins? Any of this ringing a bell?”
“Right,” I said automatically, “happy solstice.”
Tori gave me a critical, appraising once over. “Bad night?” she asked, conscious of the fact that Mindy was a few feet away behind the espresso counter.
“Yeah,” I said, “bad dreams.”
“Which one was it?” Tori asked. “Showing up at school naked or missing a big test?”
“Falling through an icy pond,” I answered lightly. “Guess I shouldn’t have watched It’s a Wonderful Life before I went to bed.”
Right on cue, Mindy said, “Oooh! I love that movie. When I was a little girl, I went around ringing bells to make angels.”
“Me, too,” Tori said, turning back toward the counter, but not before giving me the we’ll-talk-later look. “So Mindy, did that bull about Frosty coming back again some day bug you as much as it bugged me? I mean seriously, the dude melted.”
The light-hearted banter about the improbability of Christmas song lyrics got my mind off the dream and got us through the morning. It was lunchtime before Tori managed to pull me into the storeroom and hear a full account of my dream.
When I finished, she said, “Again with the deer.”
“I know,” I replied, “what the heck is up with that?”
“Tell Greer about it,” Tori said. “Maybe she’ll have some idea.”
Greer had an idea alright, but one that made it crystal clear to me I couldn’t keep withholding information from my magical elders much longer, holiday or no holiday.
14
The sight of Greer McVicar lounging elegantly on my tacky plaid sofa covered in adoring cats left me slack-jawed with shock. Well, that and the fact that she was dressed head to toe in jet black and seemed to be repelling every piece of cat hair my boys were trying to lay down.
There’s magic, and then there’s magic.
As I watched, Zeke wrapped himself around her neck and buried his face in her thick auburn hair while Xavier flopped in her lap and demanded a belly rub. Yule wedged himself under her right arm, and Winston lay sprawled across her knees.
“Do you want me to get them off you?” I asked.
Using one p
erfectly manicured crimson nail to scratch behind Zeke’s ears, Greer said, “Good heavens, no. I’m quite fond of cats. They’re wonderfully intuitive animals and superb company.”
“Glad you think so,” Festus said, sauntering out of my kitchen and almost giving me a heart attack.
“Don’t do that!” I scolded. “How the heck did you get in here anyway?”
The ginger tom made a three-legged leap to the top of the easy chair by the window and arranged himself in a sun puddle. Then, fixing me with one of his impassive stares, Festus said, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I would. I don’t think I like you coming in here and corrupting my cats.”
At that, four feline heads shot up and a chorus of protesting meows filled the room.
“I’d say that’s a unanimous vote in my favor,” Festus said smugly, “so unless you want to start finding hairballs on your pillow, I suggest you not insult me in front of the guys again.”
“Festus McGregor,” I said indignantly, “are you threatening me in my own living room?”
“Now, see,” Festus said, “that’s what’s wrong with you so-called ‘pet owners.’ It’s their living room, too, and they want me here.”
When I opened my mouth to say something else, the ornery old rascal held up a paw. “Ah, ah, ah,” he said, “remember, hairballs.”
Only someone who has been awakened in the dead of night by the dreaded sound of pre-hairball yakking will understand why I caved. “Where are my manners?” I asked with saccharin sweetness. “It’s so nice to see you, Festus. Welcome to our home.”
“Much better,” he said, giving me his contented cat face. “Lovely to be here.”
I had invited Festus and Greer up to my place to discuss my latest dream in a private setting. Chase took off earlier in the day to do his Christmas shopping, so Festus could come and go without having to answer any questions, but I could hardly plunk a talking cat down in the middle of the espresso bar.
The lair was out because Beau and Glory had genealogical materials spread out all over the worktable, plus Darby and Rodney were deeply involved in some secret project for our time in Shevington.
When I asked Tori what they were doing, she said, “All I know is that it involves skiing videos on YouTube and they have your Dad helping them with miniature equipment.”
“Never mind,” I said. “I don’t think I want to know.”
That only left my apartment for a meeting place. With Festus settled in his sunny spot and Greer weighted down with cats, I launched into an account of my dream about the pond, using the illustrations from my grimoire to point out details.
When I finished, Festus looked at Greer and said, “Are you thinking, what I’m thinking?”
“The well maidens?” she asked.
“Okay, just stop it right there,” I said. “This is not going to turn into one of those conversations. No vague references and no assuming that I know what you’re talking about when I don’t. Give me details. Now.”
Festus arched an eye whisker. “Well,” he said, “don’t you get testy when you don’t get enough sleep.”
“This from a guy who is conscious what, 2 hours a day?” I shot back.
To my utter astonishment, Winston jumped on the coffee table, arched his back, and hissed at me.
“What the . . . ” I started, but Festus broke in.
“It’s okay, Winston,” he said soothingly, “you don’t have to defend me. Humanoids don’t have manners as refined as ours.”
Although his fur was still puffed out, Winston sat down, but not before giving me the feline stink eye.
Meeting his disapproving gaze head on, I muttered, “traitor,” much to Festus’ amusement.
I could tell Greer wanted to laugh, but somehow she kept a straight face. “My apologies,” she said to me. “Festus and I do have a familiarity with Celtic lore that you lack. Let me begin again.”
As the baobhan sith talked, the Highland burr grew thicker on her tongue. She spoke of a time when wells scattered throughout Scotland and Ireland served as open passageways from the Human Realm to the In Between and beyond to the Otherworld.
Fae maidens guarded the wells, offering bowls of the enchanted waters for the rejuvenation of weary travelers. Over the centuries, however, greedy humans began to abuse the free connection of the realms and the friendship of the Fae.
Hungry for power, the humans came to believe that the well waters could make them the magical equals of their Fae brothers. When the well maidens tried to protect the sparkling waters, many were abused and even killed.
In response to these crimes, the waters dried up of their own volition. At the same time, the Fae began their long, slow retreat from direct interaction with humans and their kind became the stuff of legends. A body of human mythology grew up around the events at the wells, even linking the kidnapping of the maidens to the search for the Holy Grail. In those stories, when the maidens disappeared, the land itself withered and died.
“There is one myth in particular,” Greer said, “that speaks of the wasteland, the tale of the wounded Fisher King. In that story, man’s greed and his interference with the laws of nature caused famine and drought that could only be relieved by recovering the Grail. The king himself suffered from a wound that would not heal until he was asked an innocent question from the depths of an unspoiled heart.”
Before I knew about the Fae, none of that mythological imagery would have meant much to me, but now I heard the story in a completely different way. “But the real wasteland was the loss of magic in the world,” I said.
“In the human world, yes,” Greer replied. “In one way or another, the people of this realm have been searching for magic ever since.”
“So what do you think is the significance of the pond in my dream?” I asked.
“It is possible,” Greer said, “that the pond you saw is one of the few surviving wells through which it is still possible to reach the In Between.”
“But I thought you said the wells dried up.”
“The vast majority,” she said, “but in a handful of enchanted places openings to the Otherworld still exist. They are not used, however, because we no longer enter the Middle Realm.”
“You never told me exactly why that is,” I said. “What happened?”
Festus lifted one hind leg and scratched at his ear. “That,” he said, “is a really long story and honestly, I don’t know how much of it is myth and how much is fact. Let’s just say the Middle Realm turned into a dumping place for everyone and everything that didn’t fit anywhere else.”
“Okay,” I said, “but what does any of this have to do with what I saw in my dream?”
“In the legends,” Greer said, “the well maidens were often lured into danger by beings pretending to be wounded stags.”
That’s when I realized I knew this story already. “Joseph Campbell!” I cried. “I had to watch an episode of The Power of Myth for extra credit in senior English. He talked about this.”
“He did,” Greer said. “Campbell did everything he could to help humans recapture their sense of magic by reconnecting with the core principles of the natural order that underlie the themes present in the old stories.”
I frowned. “Was he . . . ?”
“Fae?” Greer said. “No, but a man of such wisdom and insight should have been.”
“Okay,” I said, “so this is good. We have a working theory. John Smyth can change into a deer, and for some reason, he lured the woman in my dream into that pond. Now, if we can just figure out how she’s connected to the Amulet of Caorunn, we should have it made.”
Why I insist on thinking I’m winning any game of Connect the Fae Dots, I do not know.
“Uh yeah,” Festus said, “not so fast. Smyth may be able to change into a deer alright, but if he can, we have a whole lot more than a common thief on our paws.”
Uh oh.
“How much more?” I asked.
&nb
sp; Dropping his usual sardonic attitude, Festus said earnestly, “A whole lot more, and I owe you an apology for not thinking about this possibility before. It all happened so long ago; I never dreamed there could be a connection when the street cats told me Smyth smelled like a deer.”
When Festus starts getting serious, I start getting worried.
“Just tell me,” I said. “How bad can it be?”
“In the days when the Tuatha Dé Danann walked among men,” Greer said, “a Fae woman named Sadhbh refused the attentions of Fer Dorich, the Dark Druid.”
Dark Druid? One sentence into the explanation and we had already gone from bad to worse.
“In retaliation for her refusal, the Dark Druid forced Sadhbh to live as a doe,” Greer continued. “She remained in that form for three years until a serving man told her that if she could reach the castle of Fianna of Ireland, the curse would be broken.”
“Did she get away?” I asked.
“She did,” Festus said, “but to put it delicately, during those three years, the Dark Druid lifted the curse when it suited his purposes. There was always a rumor, unconfirmed, that Sadhbh gave birth to a son by Fer Dorich, and that the boy suffered the consequences of his mother’s curse.”
The unfairness of that rankled me immediately. “Why should he suffer the consequences?” I said. “He didn’t do anything to wind up cursed. He just got in the way of what the grown-ups were doing.”
Festus hopped out of the chair and landed on the ottoman in front of me.
“That’s one of the things I love about you, Jinx,” he said. “You always lead from the heart, but you have to understand these circumstances from a Fae perspective. Humans aren’t the only ones who can give in to prejudice. If this story is true, the boy was an illegitimate child — a halfling — with a possible connection to the Darkness. He would have been feared and shunned.”
“There is more,” Greer said. “The castle of the Dark Druid lies in the Middle Realm.”
The Amulet of Caorunn (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 7) Page 11
