I woke up with a start.
To hear the rustle of Magda’s movement as she awakened. “Are you all right?” she asked in a sleep-thickened voice.
“Yes,” I said.
I felt her hot flesh as she pressed against me. “Good,” she murmured. I winced as she lay a warm (it felt heavy) arm over me. At one time, when she did that, I would have felt protected. Then, it only disturbed me. Did she know about my dream? I didn’t see how she could have. But she had so many powers. About most of which I knew nothing. I waited to see if she mentioned it. If she did, my stress level would have doubled.
She didn’t.
I brought up the subject the following morning at breakfast. Not with regard to Ruthana, of course. More having to do with Magda’s protection of me—an approach I knew was workable.
“Magda,” I began, broaching the question cleverly (I thought, with all the egotism of the standard teenager), “since you live so close to the woods, how do you protect yourself from them? Or do they just leave you alone because—” I broke off, realizing, with dashed egotism conviction, that I’d gone too far.
“Because I’m a witch?” Magda said. Neither kindly nor accusingly. A statement of fact. Which I could, scarcely, deny.
She told me that faeries disliked—were offended and even pained—by sudden noises. Accordingly, she extended (microscopic) threads across her property. She answered my question for me. The obvious question being, How come I didn’t bump into those threads? Because, she explained, they are astral threads, invisible to mortal flesh but not to faeries. So when the faeries come in contact with the threads—bing, bang, boom! Bells “activate” and—ergo—the little people are dismissed forthwith. Had any of those people tested the threads? Years ago. They’d been dismissed. Forthwith. Doesn’t that mean “right away”? I hope so.
Beyond that, the running water in front of her entry acted as a deterrent, diffusing their power. Why, I couldn’t tell you, since faeries—notably Ruthana—seemed to relish running water. Maybe only in the woods.
Of course, if the water didn’t do the job, the faeries might elect to enter through (the door, no) the walls. They had that power, being largely astral themselves. (I really did a heap of wondering on that.) The power was stymied by the installation of malefic herb pouches in each window. I hadn’t noticed them, although I’d been conscious of an enduring odor in the house—not terribly offensive to me, but definitely ever-present.
Using some form of ritual, Magda had also created what she called a vortex of defensive energy above the house. This so-called cone of power, she explained, when created over the defendant’s head (most likely the witch’s), gave rise to the myth about the witch’s coned hat. Interesting.
All these protections being in effect, it was little wonder that the strange image of Ruthana was unable to speak aloud. It was a miracle that Ruthana was able to appear at all. She must have unusual powers, too, I thought.
None of which assuaged (there I go again) my discomfort at the entire occurrence. I tried to maintain my “general” interest and involvement in the topic of faerie security, but it wasn’t easy. When Magda had completed her discourse on the subject, I even tried to make a joke. “Now I know,” I said, “why there are no bugs in the garden.”
She laughed at my lame attempt to produce humor, and the moment passed. Leaving me hopelessly ensconced (look it up yourself) in my congealed (that, too) depression. How could I go on this way? Torn between my limited acceptance of Magda and my everlasting enchantment with Ruthana. Now I’m back to combos again! Forgive me. This is a disturbing section of my account to be immersed in.
* * *
My emotional turmoil ended—with a bang—a few days later.
I was out walking on the path; Magda now allowed it, apparently at peace with my behavior toward her. Which surprised me, since I felt that my behavior was, to say the least, questionable. I, of course, underestimated her activity. I think, now (God knows I didn’t have the wit then), that she knew, all the time, what was stirring in my eighteen-year-old brain and acted accordingly. Which meant, I now believe, lengthen the unseen leash and see what the doggie does. Unkind, I guess. She didn’t think of me as a pet (I don’t think), but she knew about Ruthana now and how Ruthana had affected me. So … extend the leash and see what happens.
Which found me strolling unaware along the path. Uneasily—not because I thought, for a moment, that Magda was keeping an eye on me. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe I’m overestimating her skill at detecting the significance of my behavior. Still, there were the woods themselves. Ruthana was in there, and up to that moment, I had no idea of (1) how powerful her psychic abilities really were, and (2) was she still, as she had claimed, in love with me and, because I had unknowingly betrayed her, now in hate with me? You can see that my emotional turmoil was still very much intact.
At what point in my thought-muddled walk it began, I do not recall. It probably came on me gradually, step by step. A sensation of being drawn into the woods.
At first, I gave it little credence, thinking—if I was capable of thinking at all—that the minor physical compulsion was a psychological effect, not actual.
I was wrong. By the time I tried, once more, to ignore the compulsion, it was too powerful to ignore. Too impossible to resist. My body was being drawn inexorably into the woods. The more I struggled against it, the stronger it became. For a moment or two, I conjectured (dazedly) that it was being caused by Magda. But why? I argued—thought. Why force me to encounter Ruthana? Then again, it wasn’t that at all. Encounter Ruthana? Why do that? More likely encounter some malevolent faerie who would—?
No! I resisted that with all my might, which was, I tell you, not much at that point. For, while I was conjecturing pointlessly, the drawing went on, unabated. I swear it was as though some invisible entity had me tightly in its grip and was pulling me into the woods. Where I, now, was being dragged (but gently) through the grass and around the bushes and tree trunks.
At that point, I gave up resisting. The drawing was too careful. If Magda was behind it, would it be so? I didn’t think it. It had to be Ruthana. But why? To punish me? Or to reaffirm her love? I could not wash from my brain the memory of her in the white light, weeping, begging me to back to her.
The answer came in short order. Standing in a clearing ahead of me, Ruthana was waiting, arms outstretched to embrace me.
Then we were holding each other—her with passionate ardor, me with half-uncertain caution.
The other half was grateful joy.
“I’m sorry I did this to you,” she murmured. “I just had to see you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back,” I murmured back. “I couldn’t.” It was a lie, I knew. But I couldn’t tell her the truth. That returning was not available to me because of the attacks on me.
“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re back now, that’s all that matters.”
I had to know. The question was festering in my mind.
The opportunity to ask was delayed as Ruthana drew back from her embrace and took me by the hand. Led me through the woods to near the waterfall where I had first seen her. I noticed then—how strange that it didn’t seem consequential to notice it immediately—that she was nude. As she had been in the beginning. Never in my life had nudity seemed so innocent.
We reached the rock on which we’d sat originally, and she seated me on it, then instantly perched her warmth on my lap and, without a word, kissed me. So lingeringly that my manhood (the only aspect of it I possessed at my age) rose to the occasion.
Did it bother Ruthana? She laughed softly. (Dare I describe it as a giggle; it was close to that.) “You’re ready to love,” she said with a childlike smile. Then she gazed at me intently. “Alex,” she said, “I love you so. If you want to love, I won’t stop you.”
Physically, I wanted to—very much. But my brain intervened. “Ruthana,” I said.
“Yes, my dearest darling,” she replied. Oh, God, I thoug
ht. How could I ask now?
But I had to. “Did you … attack me?”
She looked genuinely confused. “Attack you?” she asked.
I girded my mental loins and told her about the attacks. Leaving no detail undescribed. As I did, I saw her expression alter from confusion to horror—to, finally, defensive pain.
“Did you really think I did that to you?” she asked, her tone one of gentle protest. “Do you really believe I would ever do that to you?”
She was crying, then. Sobbing as though heartbroken. And I was convinced, at that moment, that Magda had initiated the attacks. And lied to me, almost convincing me that Ruthana, not she, was responsible.
I tried to kiss away Ruthana’s flowing tears. “Don’t cry,” I said, (My love for her returned in force.) “I didn’t want to believe it. I tried to, but I couldn’t. Magda—”
“Magda,” she broke in. It was the first time I heard anything but softness in her voice. She sounded angrily contemptuous now. “That terrible witch. How could she do those awful things to you? Then make you believe I was the one who did them? Do you still believe it?”
“No, my darling,” I assured her. It was surprising how simple it was to express my feeling toward her. “I love you very much.”
The crying ceased. I drew a handkerchief from my shirt pocket (wincing as I pictured Magda washing, then ironing it) and dabbed, as carefully as I could, at Ruthana’s lustrous eyes. She was smiling again, my words had reassured her. Magda never seemed that immediately appeased. “Thank you, Alex,” Ruthana whispered. “Thank you. I love you, too. But you know that.”
She said she failed to understand how Magda could have acted (reacted, I thought) that way. Didn’t she realize that such attacks were unwarranted? (My word, not Ruthana’s.) I said I didn’t understand either. There was a lot I didn’t understand about Magda. “That’s because she’s a witch,” Ruthana told me. “No one understands what witches think.”
“That’s for sure,” I said. I wasn’t sure at all.
I shifted my arms. It was difficult to clasp her because of her size. She sensed it immediately. “What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I lied. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
“I know what it is,” she said. “Wait.”
Jumping (I mean jumping) off my lap. She darted (I mean darted) behind a tree. I wondered what she was doing. Did she have to go to the bathroom? I thought impolitely.
It wasn’t that. In a few moments—less than half a minute, I’ll guess—she reappeared.
Full size.
I know my mouth fell open. So did my brain. How did this miracle occur?
She ran (ran now, not darted) back to me and plunked herself on my lap. I think I said, “Oof!” at the extra weight. Ruthana laughed delightedly. I drew in an obvious breath. Which delighted her even more. She kissed me on the cheek. If there is such a thing as a happy kiss, that was it.
“How did you do that?” I asked. Still a mite breathless.
“We can all do that,” she said.
“For how long?” I asked, my voice a trifle wheezy.
“As long as we want,” she said, as though the answer were perfectly clear. “My brother did it—I mean my stepbrother.”
“He did,” I said, confirming information to myself.
“Yes,” she replied.
“For how long?” I asked. I wanted to know. I didn’t like the idea of her shifting without control.
Now her expression darkened. Had I asked the wrong thing?
“Until he died,” she answered quietly.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. But, still more curious, added, “Why did he do it? Change size, I mean?”
Ruthana sighed deeply. “So he could go to war,” she told me.
A glimmer of light in the unknowing shadows of my brain.
“He wanted to defend our country,” she said. “We told him that the Middle Kingdom was our country, but he wouldn’t listen.”
A glimmer above a glimmer. Like Gilly, it appeared she had the same distaste (I can’t describe it as the same hatred) for the human race.
I cut to the chase, as they say. “Was his name Harold?” I asked.
“No,” she answered, “Haral.”
“Oh,” I said. Curiosity unrelieved.
“He changed it to Harold,” she said. Then, “Why do you ask?”
“I knew him,” I said. “I was in the trenches with him.”
When I said that, her eyes lit up. I swear to God that’s what they did. For that matter, her entire face lit up. No better way to describe it. “You did!?” she said. Exultantly. No better way to describe that either.
I told her everything I could remember. How friendly Harold had been. How informative on military matters. How he taught me British slang.
“What’s that?” Ruthana asked. Brightly curious.
I told her, remembering as many Brit words as I could. “Beer and skittles”—not easy. “Bob’s your uncle”—that’s it. “Pigs might fly!”—yeah, sure, sarcastically. That one evoked a peal of delighted laughter from Ruthana. But, finally, she said, “He must have been joking with you—and himself—because we never talk like that. It’s funny, though. Harold was always funny.” That darkening expression again. “Except when he deserted our country for England.”
“Yes.” Lacking further knowledge, I had to agree with her.
That sigh again. Incredibly deep. “Were you—” She hesitated, then went on. “—with him when he—died?”
I avoided any gory detail, describing only the charm of his smile and his final words to me, “When you go to Gatford…”
“I’m so glad he said that,” I told her (from the heart). “I’m so grateful that I came to Gatford. And met you.”
“Oh, Alex,” she murmured, kissed me tenderly on the lips. “I’m so grateful that you came, too. To me.” She looked worried then. “You don’t still think I did those awful things, do you? I swear, on my life, that I would never do a thing to hurt you.” Another kiss. I hugged her tightly. So much so that she murmured, “Ooh.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I just want to hold you close.”
“Alex, Alex.” A rain of kisses. On my lips, my chin, my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead. Well, everywhere available for kisses. I enjoyed each one.
I asked her then about the gold lump. Told her how it had become a pile of gray dust.
“You didn’t get it in your eyes, did you?” she asked. It seemed an odd question.
“No,” I said, “why?”
“It could have blinded you,” she told me. “Even killed you if you’d breathed it in.”
I remembered Mr. Brean’s abrupt demise and wondered it that was the cause. No answer to that. I’d have to accept Ruthana’s word on it.
“The gold,” I said, “where did it come from?”
“Us,” she answered simply. “We can do that. My stepfather did it and sent it to Haral—Harold, as you called him.”
“And it turned into dust?”
“It had to when a human took it,” she said.
“I’m human,” I said. “It didn’t turn into dust when I had it.”
A strange response to that. “You’re not completely human, then,” she said. Again, simply. Nothing portentous.
The simplicity of her reply staggered me.
“Did Haral—Harold—give it to you?” she asked.
“In a way,” I answered, going on to describe the magical circumstance of the gold lump appearing in my duffel bag. My god, but life was magical those days!
“Well. That explains it, then,” Ruthana said. “He wanted you to have it. That protected it from—” She failed to come up with the word.
“Dissolution?” I suggested.
She laughed. “If I knew what that means,” she said.
“Another word for turning into dust,” I told her.
“Oh.” She smiled. “You’re so smart, Alex.”
“No, I’m not,” I said. “I j
ust read [pronouncing it as a rhyme with ‘red’] a lot.”
“You must see our books,” she said.
“I’m dying to,” I told her.
“Dying?” she said. Much concerned.
“Just an expression,” I said. Seeing the look of concern remaining, I added, “A way of speaking.” Her look continued, then abated as she noted the comforting tone of my voice.
“Oh,” she said. “You worried me. To say ‘dying.’ I don’t like to think of that. You dying? It would end my life.”
“Oh, Ruthana,” I could hardly speak, I was so in love with her. I’d thought Veronica was sweet. Compared to Ruthana, she was one of Dracula’s wives. The comparison struck me later; I didn’t read the novel until Arthur Black was under way.
We kissed and kissed. Do I sound romantically absurd? Can’t help it. That’s the way it happened. Endless kisses. Only the sound of our endless osculation. Other than the birds and breeze in the trees. Plus the distant splashing of the waterfall. Too bad I couldn’t say “the birds and the bees in the trees.” A. Black would have enjoyed a chuckle at that. But Alexander White was bereft of critical acumen. Eighteen years old, criminally (perhaps a bit too accusatory an adjective) naïve, A. White lost in a dream world of love. Only his organ showed any sign of reality recognition. (Good combo there.) Recognition exaggerated as Ruthana helped me off with my clothes.
Ruthana, accustomed to living twenty-four hours a day in this dream world, knew what was occurring in my nether regions. She smiled at me with innocent pleasure. “You want to love,” she observed. Not too difficult an observation, since my organ was halfway to the moon.
“I do,” I said. Throatily.
“I’m yours to love,” she murmured. Then, with a quick kiss on my lips, said, “But first.”
First? I thought. What first? Did I need to wash myself? I had no rubberized protection with me. The last of those was still in France. What then?
Other Kingdoms Page 15
