I puzzle over the uniform lauvan, but can’t come up with a good answer. I open the note.
Dearest Anna,
The time is soon upon us. You must prepare yourself. On the eve of the new moon, at the sacred place, open the doors to the other plane just as I taught you. Use my gift to guide you on your way. Be strong, my darling. Once the deed is done, I will come and take you away from Wallerton forever.
The note is unsigned.
Curiouser and curiouser. I read the note again but don’t understand it any better than the first time. Anna will be able to keep her secrets.
I put the papers and deck of cards back together and straighten edges until I recognize the signs of my own procrastination.
“Come on, Merlin,” I say out loud. “Grab the bull by the horns. Bite the bullet. Eat the frog.” Get my ass in gear, in other words. Who knows how much time I really have before Mt. Linnigan blows?
***
It’s time to figure out this blasted volcano. I let myself out of Anna’s first floor apartment and blink in the sunlight to get my bearings. Luckily, Wallerton is not large, and I strike out in the direction of my unused hotel and my car in the restaurant parking lot.
I turn the corner onto the main street and am confronted by “The Flickering Candle.” The shop is trying very hard to develop its mystical aura, with the requisite colored scarves softening up the window display and sale signs in Papyrus font. It fights a valiant battle against the decidedly mundane Laundromat next door.
On a whim, I cross the road and enter. No wind chimes announce my presence—perhaps I should put these people in touch with the Vancouver shop proprietor so they can compare notes. A strong waft of incense pushes past me as if trying to escape the shop. I’m curious to know more about Anna and the lauvan-laced note. In a town this size, and with Anna’s apparent interest in the occult, this shop seems like a sensible place to ask questions.
After this, I promise myself, I will go to the volcano and stop letting Anna distract me from my true purpose here.
As I enter, a woman leaps up from a stool in the only free corner of the crowded shop, where she has clearly taken up residence in the absence of any customers this morning—accounting papers and a calculator lie on the floor under the stool as if haphazardly shoved there during my entry.
“Good afternoon,” the woman says. Her voice is deep and husky, almost too much so to be real. She has on a huge chunky necklace and flowing cotton shirt, but her brown hair is cut in a no-nonsense shoulder-length bob. She’s trying for a look, but hasn’t quite committed.
“Hello. Is it afternoon already?” I check my watch. It’s just past noon. Dammit. I slept much later than I planned to.
“Can I help you find something today?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could help me find someone.” I smile winningly at her. “Wallerton seems like such a tight-knit community, that I thought you might know.” The woman’s disappointment is palpable. I almost feel bad for not looking around first. “I’m supposed to meet up with a woman named Anna Green today, but I’m not sure where to find her.”
The woman’s face darkens unexpectedly.
“Yeah, I know Anna,” she says. I raise my eyebrows. Apparently, Anna has a reputation. She continues, “She was originally my partner in this store, but bowed out late in the game.” She lifts her head proudly. “It’s fine, though. I’ve managed quite well without her.”
That explains the shrine and tarot cards. But not the lauvan note, not yet. This woman’s lauvan are a mountain-lake green, not red. The woman continues.
“I’d steer clear of her, if I were you.” Oh ho, small-town cattiness, or a real warning? “She’s into some pretty dark stuff. Bad energies.” I doubt that very much, but I wonder what makes this woman say that. “I pity the poor guy she just got involved with. She’s going to infect him with her dark aura, mark my words. You know,” here the woman leans toward me. Her huskiness is replaced by a high, breathless stage whisper. “I live next door to her, and the racket those two were making, oh my word. I had to put in earplugs eventually.”
I stare at her levelly. The ball finally drops and her face flushes a brick-wall red.
God, this woman is adorable. I could tease her all day.
“Well,” I say. “I like what you’ve done with the shop.”
The woman’s face washes over with gratitude for the change in subject.
“Oh, thank you. Here, let me read your aura for you. As a thank-you for coming in.”
I don’t really have the time or desire to have my aura read, whatever that means to her, but the woman is already rolling up her sleeves. I didn’t realize aura-reading was so labor-intensive.
“May I?” She holds up her hands on either side of my head.
“Be my guest.” Maybe it’ll be quick if I acquiesce.
She lays her palms against my temples, her eyes closed. Then her eyes pop open.
“Sorry. I’m supposed to tell you my name. To foster trust, you know. My name is Sylvana.” She gives this obviously false name an emphasis of gravitas.
“I’m Merry.” I raise one eyebrow. “Sylvana?”
She flushes.
“Well, it’s Jackie, really. But Sylvana’s my inner-goddess name.”
I nod graciously, as much as her hands will allow.
“Sylvana it is.”
She closes her eyes again, and I study her features for a lack of something better to do. Her widely spaced eyes give her an open, honest-looking face, and her rosy cheeks are apparently prone to coloration.
Then I notice her lauvan changing. Where once only green lauvan swirled, now a mix of green and bright orange coil around her arms toward my head. They originate under the neckline of her shirt, where a fine golden chain descends out of sight. I’d missed it before, competing as it was for attention with the bulky beads of the other necklace.
Centuries without seeing an amulet of power, and then two in the same week? Where did these women get them?
“I can sense your aura,” Jackie—Sylvana—proclaims. Both her lauvan and the ones from the necklace are tentatively touching my own. It’s a very intimate connection, and I wonder how much she can feel. Perhaps it’s just me.
“Your aura is very strong,” she says in a dreamy voice. I don’t know about strong. Tangled, maybe. She continues, “You have a very old soul.” I smile since her eyes are closed. I wonder if she’s actually getting something from using that necklace, or whether she was instructed to say that by whatever fortune-telling manual she memorized.
“Spirits!” Sylvana shouts out of nowhere. I flinch. “Speak! Fill me with your wisdom for this man!”
Whoa. This is going in a direction I hadn’t anticipated. I consider my options for extracting myself from Sylvana’s grasp, but stop when I see the lauvan of the necklace throb and twitch erratically. Something is definitely happening.
Sylvana’s eyes open and immediately roll back in her head. I hear whispers in the air and freeze. What the hell?
Sylvana’s head twitches back and forth for a solid twenty seconds. The whispers grow to a wordless murmur, then stop abruptly. Sylvana sags suddenly. I catch her and lead her to her stool.
“Are you all right?” Was that incredible acting, or did something really happen?
She takes a few deep breaths and looks at me.
“I’m sorry. It’s not supposed to be like that. Normally I get very clear messages from the spirit world. But today, all I heard were angry mutterings and whispers about your father.”
I stare at Sylvana, my mind whirling.
I know nothing about my father. He came to the Beltane celebration one year at my village and chose my mother to couple with that night. No one had ever seen him before, and no one ever saw him again. I don’t even know his name.
I’ve asked and I’ve searched, of course, but my efforts have always been fruitless. I dwelled on it often as a young man, but eventually chalked it up to another mystery. I suspect the
secrets of the lauvan and the mystery of my father are linked. How could they not be? The legends say that my father was a demon. I don’t know what that even means, but I wonder sometimes whether that explanation is close to the truth.
Sylvana can’t possibly know anything. She’s talking of invoking spirits, for pity’s sake. The druids spoke of a time when the spirits of the elements could be sensed, before I was born. Some of the older druids, even those I trusted and respected, spoke of hearing the spirits at ceremonies. Neither then nor any time since have I ever heard or seen any such spirits. I have my doubts they exist.
Still, Sylvana has the lauvan necklace. And something did happen.
“What did you hear?” I say.
Sylvana rubs her eyes.
“That’s the thing. Usually it’s clear. They’ll say things like, ‘His energies are strong,’ or ‘Her aura is sick and needs more fire.’ It’s never been like this. It’s almost as if the spirits were angry, or frightened. All I could catch were the words ‘His father.’”
I stare at her, trying to determine whether or not to question her further. She stares back at me with her wide, honest eyes. I sigh. She’s told me all she knows. I stand up straight and offer her my hand.
“Are you okay?”
She takes my hand and hauls herself up. She’s shaky and puzzled-looking, but stands just fine.
“Yes, thank you.”
I turn to go.
“Wait.” Sylvana grabs my arm. “Be careful around Anna. She’s mixed up in something bad, something big. I can feel it. And I can sense you’re not a part of it, so…” She pauses, then pats my arm and lets go. “Just be careful.”
I nod.
“Thanks for the reading.”
I exit the shop. Her eyes burn a hole in my back.
***
I only let myself dwell on Sylvana’s curious “spirit summoning” for a few moments before banishing it from my mind. Despite wanting answers badly, I know it does no good to ponder my unknown father and heritage—I’ve done that too often in the past, with no reward. Right now I have more important things to focus on, like an imminent eruption that only I have a hope of preventing.
My pocket vibrates, and the screen says I have a text from Jen.
Where are you? I want to say bye before I head out on my first trip for my job!!!
I smile, but put the phone back in my pocket. I’ll call her later—after I’ve figured out Mt. Linnigan.
It’s a beautiful drive to the Three Peaks Provincial Park. Towering conifers loom over the road, interspersed with open areas of fertile wetlands where hundreds of birds swoop and twitter. I half-expect to see a moose in these prime locations, but no such luck. They’re not as frequent as I remember from when I first explored these parts.
Mt. Linnigan looms up ahead of me after a bend in the road. It’s steaming slightly and I wince, afraid of what I will find at my destination.
I’m too busy looking at the mountain that the road blockade takes me by surprise. A police officer in a reflective vest waves at me to roll down my window.
“You’ll have to turn around,” he says without preamble. “The park is restricted-access only.”
“Because of the volcano?”
He nods, glancing at Mt. Linnigan which steams ominously.
“Best if you stay away. They’re still figuring out how to predict when it’ll blow.”
I doubt they will. I have a flash of pity for the volcanologists on site, presumably pulling their hair out at this unexplainable activity.
The officer directs my turn and I head down the road with the mountain in my rearview mirror.
I don’t drive for long. There is an overgrown logging road on my right—a perfect spot to park the car out of sight of the road. I’ll need to hike into Mt. Linnigan if I want to find out anything.
My legs stride confidently into the undergrowth. I last about two minutes.
“Shit. This is ridiculous,” I say out loud. The forest is dense and unyielding, and I’m traveling about twenty paces a minute. I pause to catch my breath, and close my eyes to feel for my own lauvan.
This particular trick of mine takes a fair bit of energy and concentration, although it’s worth it to avoid tramping through the underbrush. I pull some of my lauvan tightly, some I twist, and some I stretch. It makes me a little dizzy, but I persist. Once everything is in position, I take a deep breath and give a final yank.
My body dissolves. At least, that’s what it feels like. I would gasp or scream except there is no breath in my lungs. I’m not even sure if I have lungs anymore that would contain breath.
The sensation lasts for less than a second, and when it passes my eyes open to a decidedly different viewpoint. A fern towers overhead and a line of ants crosses in front of me, huge and glossy black.
I try to smile in satisfaction, but my face doesn’t move. Of course. I open and close my mouth, and my beak clicks together.
I have transformed into a bird of prey, specifically a Falco columbarius, also known as a merlin. What else would I be? I have a poetic soul. When falconry was popular, merlins were used frequently. The Book of St. Albans, a hawking manual published in 1486, carefully lists the merlin as the appropriate choice for both emperors and ladies. I thought that was apt.
My animal-transformation repertoire is limited, especially when transforming myself. It takes a good long while to learn the details of a creature well enough that I can manipulate my own form into its exact musculature, the precise layout of its fur or feathers, the motions of its eyes. It’s a little easier transforming other people, but only if I have a version of the animal right in front of me to model the transformation after. Learning the ways of a bird was a useful decision. That this one has such a great name is a beautiful coincidence.
I spread my wings and push off from the ground. My powerful muscles transport me in a burst of motion, almost dizzying me until I grow used to the falcon senses. I tuck my talons into my body and let out a shriek for the pure joy of it. It echoes off the nearest trees. My flight is exhilarating, and I twist in a barrel roll to release my exuberance.
Now, this is living. Why don’t I do this more often? Why do I contain myself on the ground so frequently? My stomach reminds me that it hasn’t had breakfast yet, and my raptor senses narrow in on a twittering songbird, fifty wingbeats ahead and below. My instincts take over and I dive-bomb the unsuspecting bird. Two seconds later finds me perched on a nearby branch, where I nod my head in short, jerky motions to gulp down the inert form.
Oh, yes. That’s why I don’t transform more often. Control over my bird-form is limited at best, and once instincts take over there’s not much I can do. My stomach is a horrible mix of revulsion and satisfaction. I finish swallowing and take off in a beeline for my destination. The longer I stay as a bird, the more susceptible I am to avian instincts and urges. Also, the strain of holding my lauvan in place is no laughing matter—after too long the effort is not worth the payoff.
I fly above the trees, dipping and skimming between treetops. I aim for the smoldering peak of Mt. Linnigan, the road to my right. The mountain grows larger and larger. It is an incredible sight, and not just for its rocks and trees.
Lauvan-cables spread out from the Mt. Linnigan center like spokes of a wheel. They glimmer and froth with multitudes of lauvan that glisten silvery-brown. Mt. Linnigan itself is the hub and it glitters transparently, magnificently, with the ends of thousands of lauvan dispersing at the foot of the mountain where the cables end to mingle together on the slopes. It’s quite mesmerizing.
It would be more beautiful if my falcon’s eyes didn’t observe the hideous, sickly yellow lauvan that twine their way throughout the center, to crawl along the cables and spread their infection. I shriek again to express my frustration. This is bigger than I feared.
Close to the base of the mountain, the road ends in a large parking lot. The top of a white tent is just visible through the trees. I fly down for a closer look.
This must be ground zero for the scientific base. It’s as good a place as any to start gathering information. Anything I can get before diving into the lauvan would be helpful.
I land a short distance away and proceed to change back into a human. Fortunately for me, there isn’t much manipulation involved, since my dexterity is severely hampered by my lack of fingers. My lauvan are practically itching to spring back to their usual form, and a quick shake of my feathers dissolves my bird-form and reassembles me into my usual shape.
I take a moment to gather my wits again after the transformation, and try to ignore the undigested weight in my stomach. I start walking to the camp, then look down at myself. My clothes need some adjustment. I take my lauvan in both hands and do some quick manipulations. A passable ranger uniform emerges. It will do.
I stride into the makeshift camp like I’m supposed to be there, and nearly get bowled over by a pair of women carrying a large surveying instrument between them. Looking around, I spot a man staring up at the mountain, a lone figure of stillness amid the hubbub. I make my way over.
“Hi there.” I greet the man. He looks at me and nods, then shifts his eyes back to the mountain as if he can’t bear to take his gaze away for more than a moment. Okay, first contact made. Let’s get some info. “I just started my shift. What’s the update? Any news yet?”
Ignition Page 8
