Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey

by Steve Windsor

  Bane barely spoke. “We—”

  “The wicked little witch from the lake,” Chianne said. “She and her friend killed one of those Maplewood capons, and then instead of taking their medicine, they crafted the brat back from the black. Last I smelled her, the dumber of the two was following her friend’s advice and hightailing it home.”

  Bane stared at Chianne. He’d protested La Bete’s decision to bind the two together, but he knew why the alpha had done it. The female was more angry alpha than mindful mate. He’d never been able to influence her in any meaningful way. Something had always been missing from their bond, and now that he’d locked eyes with the witch. . .

  “The worst of it,” Chianne continued, “he’s imprinted on her. I could smell it on him.”

  La Bete loped over to Bane and growled at him. “Impossible,” he said, “that’s forbidden. And he knows it.” He whipped his head toward Chianne and snarled. “You’re his mate. How did you let this—”

  “In name only,” said Chianne. She sniffed and let out the smallest bark at Bane. “As far as it goes, I’d request another.”

  Everything Chianne and La Bete were saying was true, and Bane had no idea what to do about it. Protect his mate and pledge his life to his pack were pretty simple rules. For most of the pack those were one and the same thing. No crocdog had ever faced the dilemma of those two laws living so far apart—so difficult to obey one without violating the other.

  But there wasn’t much a hound could do after an imprint; instinct was more powerful than duty. Bane lowered his head in shame and loped away a few steps. Then he sat down.

  Bane could say what he wanted about her suitability as a mate. Chianne was known to tell nothing but the rough and raw truth. “There,” she said, “he’s all but admitted it.”

  La Bete growled louder than before. “And the other one? You said there was another wicked wart with her.”

  Chianne chuckled a little. “Trolls in town are probably stacking stumps under her right now, getting ready to burn her to a crispy caster.” Then she pointed to the two crocdog betas who’d barely escaped the schoolhouse with their hides. “Thanks to these two, they’ll be bringing the crossbolts after us next. But, who knows, maybe that wart got awa—”

  “Indeed I did,” a voice said.

  The entire pack spun toward the direction of the voice and growled.

  Magnolia stood at the edge of the pack’s little hill, her long black dress soaked up about a foot from the bottom and her boots covered in marsh mud. She looked at the two beta crocdogs. They were snarling at her, but content to stay put. “And thanks to you two, and your impressive display of morphing mayhem, I was able to slip out before they could”—she looked at Chianne—“as miss murder for breakfast here so eloquently put it, burn me to a crisp.”

  “Seize her!” La Bete barked.

  If dwarves were ill-treated in the old world order, those few imps that survived the Great Purge were now oppressed by the religious masters who “rescued” them. There wasn’t a town school headmaster, Catholic Father or voodoo priest, who was without his half-sized spying eye close at hand.

  Dwarves may not have been well-treated after the Purge, but they were certainly well-used. Father Felixx’s waddling and wicked dwarf, Besseac Ironskin, was tasked with all manner of hoodoo and voodoo dealings.

  He’d earned his name the same way every dwarf did after the Purge—he scrapped with his fellow dwarves for the amusement of the crowd. Ironskin had proven he was tough and up for any dangerous task the Father saw fit to assign him, but following the little magic girl’s friend into the Frasch Forest was probably the most dangerous thing he’d ever done.

  A dwarf was no match for a crocdog—a tasty replacement for a horse snack— whether he was carrying a satchel full of potions or not. And a crocdog’s viciousness was more than matched by a keen sense of smell. So, in order to escape detection, Ironskin had rolled in enough mud that even the most sensitive of noses wouldn’t be able to tell him from a squishy boghole. His mud-surrounded eyes stared from behind a fallen cypress tree at all the hounds, the shifted and those still human.

  Ironskin had peered through his spyhole in the Father’s office at the back of the schoolhouse, watching in amazement when the girl made her escape from the box. Then he hurried out the back and trailed the little white wart through the hog grass, along the lake, and then hesitantly followed her into the depths of the Frasch.

  Now, back to her true self and surrounded by crocdogs, Ironskin figured that the mangy mutts were about to save his master the trouble of burning her. Sadly for him, denying Father Felixx his fire would not solve his own problem of producing proof of the existence and the dangers of magic. He’d be whipped at the very least for the Father’s frustration over that.

  The pack was all around the girl now. Ironskin could barely see her between the circling legs, or hear anything over the growls and snarls. But to his surprise, shortly, the alpha barked and the rest of them moved away. The girl and the alpha exchanged words and then . . . she left?

  Ironskin had no choice now but to continue following her.

  Watching the crocdogs in the forest let her go had been confusing for Ironskin. But now, spying on the wicked little witch’s lily-white friend, Magnolia, standing on the rickety steps of the broken-down and obviously abandoned shack was testing his sanity.

  “Hmmph,” he grunted to himself. One whiff of the place would’ve been enough to tell the most insane person that skunks had taken it over completely. And yet, the girl—he could hardly call her that after all he’d seen while trailing her—stood there, staring up the stairs at the unhinged door, waiting for . . . something. “Missy magic lost her marbles,” he muttered. “Staring into nothing. Wicked wanding little wench.”

  He pulled a small vial out of his satchel, opened it and sniffed some of the contents into each nostril. Essence of frog guts was certainly sweeter than stenching skunk, but it left a burning in the back of his throat similar to the rye alcohol he pilfered from the Father’s office.

  He put the vial back and pulled a small flask out of his vest, wiped the mud off the lid, then took a small sip. “Umh,” he grunted. He stopped cold when the door the little witch was staring at melted away . . . and the “girl” sauntered inside.

  Ironskin smiled, revealing all of his ragged and rusty teeth. “Gotcha . . . filthy flitting little kitty.”

  I protest all they’ll let me, but apparently there’s some protocol to meeting a representative from the Black Lake, one that trumps my best friend being burned. I barely get a word in before Cat ushers us all into the sitting room. He practically pushes us all into the big green high-backed velvet chairs surrounding the sitting room fireplace. As bright as it is outside, the sitting room is cozy, dark and glowing orange and green from the smoldering fire.

  Broom being Broom, he wands three more logs onto the flames, creating a huge boomer. To my surprise—I’m pretty sure to Broom’s as well—Cat doesn’t give a stitch in protest. Most likely because he’s too busy falling all over himself, conjuring a chair in from the foyer for “auntie” Maxxine.

  When he’s done, she takes over. “You know how the council feels about bringing anyone back from the black,” she says to Cat. “Draws . . . unwanted attention to us all.”

  Is that why we’re not going after Magnolia? I’m in trouble with the council?

  But she continues reprimanding Cat. “You know better—and this Magnolia. Who is she? The council has no record of her being on the watch.”

  “She’s”—Cat glances at me and lowers his head a little—“no one of consequence,” he says. Then he looks back at Maxxine. “And I wasn’t aware that Dixxon had acquired the power to—”

  I can’t believe what he’s saying. “No one of conseque—”

  SNAP! The flame finds a piece of pitch it doesn’t like in one of the logs, and it spits out a glowing chunk of charred wood, up and over the fire screen—onto the wooden plank floor.


  Mansion moans and Broom waves his handle to his side at it. He never takes his gaze off Maxxine. The glowing ember floats back into the fireplace. “Which way the council witches leaning these days?” he says. “Last I hear, black was white, up was down, and bad was back to good again.”

  They all seem to know what they’re talking about, but I don’t understand any of it and I’m beginning to think I’m going to need to find out on my own. This is too much fuss for my birthday and a simple sneak of a passion potion. But Cat must want an answer to Broom’s question as well, because he doesn’t reprimand Broom for rudeness this time.

  Maxxine cackles a little, but before she can answer, in floats Saucer, Smug and three of their brothers and sisters. Saucer and Smug land right in my hands, Cat’s saucer lands on the side table between his and Maxxine’s chairs. She motions for hers to be placed on the table as well. Broom waves his off completely and his saucer and cup go flying back to the kitchen. When they creak through, I can hear the murmurs from my kitchen witchies. . . “Black witch ‘ere. . .”

  “. . .Cat not seeing right. . .” and the door shuts tight.

  Maxxine leans forward, and then looks around and behind her toward the kitchen. “They’re wise to be concerned.”

  My eyes open wide, like a big saucer. Did she hear what my witchies said? Cat’s head snaps to attention and his ears prick up.

  Maxxine sits back in her seat, picks up her saucer and cup, takes a long sip, sets them back down and eyes Broom. “Blue Moon’s six days comin’, or is it five now? I lose count this close. They all tend to blur together in the black.” She glances at me and then back to Broom. “No matter. We all know what Sunday means, don’t we.”

  “What?” I say. Maybe she’s got some answers, because it seems Cat and Broom have been keeping more than a surprise party from me. “What does it mean, because Magnolia said something about ‘she didn’t want me to find out this way,’ but I figured it was just the passion potion mak—”

  “You haven’t told her?” Maxxine looks at Cat.

  As serious as the situation seems to be, Cat can’t resist his saucer. He stops sipping and licks his lips. “The opportune moment had not presented—”he stops and looks at me—“passion. . .? What on Bile Island is she doing giving you passion potion?”

  I’ve had enough. “Listen,” I say it louder than I thought I was going to. “I’m sorry, Miss Levine, but I can’t just sit here and listen to the three of you calmly discuss my birthday . . . when my best friend is about to get burned at the stake.”

  Maxxine picks up her saucer and cup, takes a sip, and then she smiles at me. “Such passion,” she says. “Ah, to be young again. Am I right, Baxxster? And Dixxon darling, you must call me Auntie Maxx.”

  I’ll be doing no such thing. Auntie mon cul. . .

  Maxxine doesn’t wait for an answer from Baxxster. “Sneaking off to school to pop passion potion and conjure cretins back from the black.” She fans herself with her free hand, and then sets down her saucer and cup. “Would wear down the most wicked of us, I should think.” Then she turns to me. “And to your concern, Dixxon, there’s no brooming or bashing, or burning for that matter, that the council isn’t fully aware of.

  “For anyone to do so, wickedly magical or worthlessly mortal, would be a clear violation of the treaties that have been in place since the Great Purge.” She sits back in her chair and stares into the raging fire. “Even that filthy philanderer who calls himself a Father at your school wouldn’t dare burn someone without the proper authorization. Bay of crocdogs, though he may.”

  When I look at Cat and Broom. . . Well, it looks like I’m not the only one who’s wide-eyed and wondering in my mind just who this woman is. None of us has long to think about it.

  “And as far as I’m informed,” Maxxine says, “your friend”—she frowns at Cat—“Magnolia, is it?” She picks up her tea and takes another sip, much smaller and quite frankly louder this time. Then she swallows slowly and says to me. “Sadly or gladly, your little guardian angel is just not . . . ‘on the list,’ as we like to say on the island.”

  Angel?

  Mangy moans. It’s not like before. This time it seems less dark and scary . . . but more urgent.

  “You see there,” Auntie Maxxine says, “En parlant des anges, on voit leurs ailes.”

  Cat streaks out of the sitting room without a word, headed for the front doors. But I haven’t heard a knock at all.

  Auntie Maxxine tips up her tea. Before drinking any, she smiles at the fire and speaks at it, “Seems there’s another visitor. Go ahead then, see who it is. I’ll wait.”

  Broom and I look at each other, but he doesn’t make a move to leave the room until I do. Once I’m up and out of my chair, though, he’s swishing quickly right behind me. When we get to the front doors, I can hardly believe my eyes.

  — 8 —

  IT TOOK IRONSKIN more time than he’d planned on to limp-jog his way back to the schoolhouse. He stopped briefly to jump in the lake and try and wash off the mud from the Frasch, but the lingering scent of skunk was back in his nostrils. When he finished and headed back again, all along Prien Lake, frogs ribbited and croaked like crazy when he passed. There were hundreds of them.

  If he’d had more time, he might’ve made a quick three-pronged spear out of a willow stick—stuck himself a sweet snack for supper. That would’ve shut them up. He smiled at the thought.

  His smile went away when he got to the far edge of the hog grass. Hungry as he was for frog, Ironskin didn’t want to get himself speared by a stray crossbolt. He made sure to take a different path through the grass than the Maplewood girl, Mae-mae, had.

  But by the time he reached the edge of the schoolyard and peeked across to Father Felixx’s office back door, night was falling on Brimstone Hill and it looked and sounded as though the children had all gone home.

  When Ironskin slipped into Father Felixx’s office, It looked like his master was whispering something into the fireplace. Once the man noticed his little spy in the room, he abruptly stopped. Then the flames licked higher and lit up the office to a bright orange glow. Ironskin could’ve sworn that the flames had been purple a second before he shut the door behind him.

  Father Felixx didn’t waste any time. “What have you found, brother Besseac?” Then he noticed the smell. “Ugh, what have you rolled in? Smells like. . . Is that skunk?”

  Ironskin wanted to frown, but that would invite a long reprimand and he was hungry. All he wanted to do was get done with his report and go back and trident a big toad for supper. He could almost taste the legs. “A safe place to hide, Father,” he said, “if you could stand a stench of it. And they was plenty a stink. Rather take a beatin’ in the box than try and get up that porch. Little missy prance right up like she own them skunks—no fuss—then the front door just melt her inside.”

  Father Felixx squinted just a little and sucked in as much of the scent as he dared. “So you’ve found the devil’s den then”—he turned and walked back toward his fire—“in a disgusting pit of skunks. Well, we’ll burn them right beside their sorcering masters.”

  The thought of roasting skunks did nothing for Ironskin’s growing appetite.

  “And what of the hounds?” Father Felixx said. “Did you find the crocdog lair as well?”

  “Coulda burn up a whole pack tahyos and little missy with one torch,” said Ironskin. “And another piece a pie, Father.”

  “She went into the Frasch?” asked Father Felixx.

  Ironskin figured it would ease the pain from the rest of the message. “Young brother’s crossbolt made its mark—one less a them crocdogs to burn.”

  “Yes. . . And the girl?”

  “Didn’t understand it,” said Ironskin, “they don’t harm a hair on little missy’s head. She walk right up to they den and they let her walk right back out.”

  The Father paced and thought. “What new evil is this?” he said. “How’s that even. . .?” He stopped pacing and turned to B
esseac. “What did she say to them?” He recalled that that was in violation of magic’s basic rules.

  “Couldn’t get close enough to make out what they was saying. She mouth some mumbo-jumbo to that top dog, then the rest. . . They circle up like they was gonna eat her, then that doggy, he bark at ’em and they let her go.”

  Besseac could see it wasn’t the answer his master was looking for. He watched the Father reach for the big leather strap, hanging next to the fireplace. But Ironskin had taken a beating before, and the frog legs were calling.

  A few of the town school children had turned tail and run home at the screams. The rest of them sat silently in their pews as instructed, wincing and jumping in their seats at every crack of the leather strap and every hideous howl the Father’s dwarf cried out. They gripped down tight on a crossbow stock or an unlit torch handle for comfort, silently thanking the Saints that they weren’t the ones being whipped.

  By the time the Father had appeared out from his office and up on the pulpit, there wasn’t a Maplewood meanie or a burb boy or girl who wouldn’t gladly burn anyone or anything the Father told them to. Anything to avoid looking like the little imp, trudging out of the Father’s office behind him.

  Now, single file and stretched out behind the Father and his limping imp spy, the entire burning band of them lit up the shores of Prien Lake with flickering orange torches.

  The giant bullfrogs kept cadence to the marching mortals: “Croak, croak, croak-croak-croak. Croak, croak, croak-croak-croak. . .”

  Non-magic folk had no idea what the frogs were saying, or that they were saying anything at all. But any witch, mystic or morpher within hearing distance of the shores would’ve recognized only one word, chanted over and over again—“Burn!”

  The skunks started spraying before the long line of torch-bearing townies even appeared over the lake’s embankment. A cloud of green gas hovered just in front of what looked like a rickety and ragged old bayou shack, long fallen down and forgotten by the banks of the lake.