The Forgotten Story

by Michelle E Lowe

  “Mama!”

  Taisia looked down at her daughter, who was tugging at her dress. “Galina?” she said as if surprised to see her.

  “What’s wrong, Mama? You have been standing here for a long time.”

  She glanced at Galina and Joaquin’s baskets and found them filled with papayas. “I . . . um,” she stammered, trying to maintain her composure in front of them.

  Her son studied her. “Mama, are you crying?”

  She touched her face with a shaky hand and felt the warm tears. “I was stung by a bee,” she quickly lied. “Come. Let’s return home.”

  When they arrived at the huts, Taisia told her children to take the papayas to their grandparents for mincing while she visited their great-grandmother. She found her on the rocks, meditating.

  “You have seen a vision, as well?” Grandmother Fey asked Taisia, sitting next to her.

  She nodded. “It was so real. So horrible.”

  “They are meant to be.”

  “Everything was so clear. My body was filled with all of the suffering in those terrible cells.”

  Taisia bowed her head mournfully. What she uttered scraped against the inside of her throat. “If Pierce goes, can he save them?”

  “Oui.”

  “But he will die.”

  Grandmother Fey was quiet.

  “Grandmother,” Taisia pressed.

  “If I can keep the protection over him intact, then there might be a chance for him to live.”

  Taisia rubbed her forehead. The sea spray helped with the relentless sun beating down on her. She lowered her hand to look at Grandmother Fey. “You can look into the future?”

  “In a way, oui. But I can only foresee certain things . . . ”

  “Then can’t you predict whether he’ll be all right?” Taisia cut her off.

  Taisia only vaguely understood Grandmother Fey’s capabilities. She’d never inquired about fortunetelling because she had no interest in knowing what might come.

  Grandmother Fey looked as if she needed to explain something to her. Instead, she only offered a weary smile. “Would you care to see for yourself?”

  Taisia was unsure if she really wanted to but nodded anyway.

  They both faced each other. Grandmother Fey took her by the hands and held them tight. “Close your eyes,” Grandmother Fey instructed. “I shall channel what I see into you.”

  Taisia obeyed.

  The sun that was burning through her eyelids, narrowed, and soon she saw her own hands, which were busy with making one of her seashell wind chimes. Her skin was wrinkled and the joints in her fingers hurt. She was sitting on the front porch of her hut, and on the other side sat Pierce with his cockatoo, Marco Polo, resting on his perch beside him. Pierce was dressed in his usual fisherman slacks and wore a black vest. His grey hair reached halfway down his slightly hunched spine as he leaned into the cane he held. He had silver-framed spectacles hanging from a chain around his neck. She smiled at him lovingly and returned to her work.

  She heard him gasp.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him.

  “Aye. Fine.”

  She kept an eye on him a little while longer before returning her focus to her craft.

  Taisia enjoyed sitting quietly on the porch with her husband. They had done so for many years, occasionally stealing glances at one another. Sometimes, they never needed to say a word to entertain each other.

  “Taisia,” he spoke up after a few moments. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  She had plenty left to do with the wind chime but decided that her old legs could use a stroll. With some effort, she got to her feet. Pierce appeared to be having a bit of trouble getting out of his chair, even with the assistance of his cane. She helped him up.

  She looked deeply into his green eyes—they had never lost their radiance. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Aye,” he assured her as they stepped down the stairs. “Just needed to gather my strength.”

  They walked peacefully down the shore, enjoying their surroundings. She’d never grown tired of it, even after all these years. They continued over the sandy beach. Pierce used his cane and limped heavily. A nasty fall in the past had broken his leg severely. Eventually, they arrived at the sand dunes and slowly settled into their usual spot.

  Pierce let out a slight groan and held Taisia close to him. “How fortunate I am to have been able to spend my life with you.”

  She smiled and slid a hand down his face—a face that had grown more in wisdom than with age. After their fifty-four years together, Pierce had managed to retain most of his youthful glow due to his elfin blood. Nevertheless, he had become an old man, and the cracks of age were still there, just as they were in her.

  Her hand traveled down to his neck. The scar he’d received when his brother, Joaquin, slit his throat was gone, as were the scars that Robin of Locksley had given him when he bit him.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  They kissed, and for a moment, she felt young again.

  In the warmth of the afternoon and in the softness of the sand, Taisia drifted off to sleep.

  Hours passed, and the waves rolled in and out. The sun had stayed mostly behind the clouds. A warm breeze, carrying the scent of rain, blew over. A crack of thunder brought Taisia out of her slumber.

  “Pierce,” she said softly to her husband, who had fallen asleep against her. “Wake up, it’s about to rain.”

  He did not move.

  “It’s time to leave,” Taisia said a bit louder, standing up on the sandy incline.

  When she did, he fell sideways without her support.

  She tutted and shook him some. “Sound asleep. Come on, wake up now.”

  He did not stir.

  “Pierce?”

  He was completely motionless, his eyelids closed. His expression was one of complete serenity, yet a great part of him was no longer there. Taisia’s bottom lip quivered as she rested her palms on his cheeks. Memories flashed by her field of vision.

  The first time they’d met when she struck him across the head and locked him inside her cell at Newgate Prison.

  Their initial kiss in the elf forest, and their blissful walk after making love soon afterward.

  Their wedding day.

  His lips pressed upon her pregnant belly when he kissed it.

  His tears when he held their newborns for the first time.

  She saw him as a middle-aged man, standing by the shore, looking out over the vast ocean. He turned to her and smiled.

  “No,” Taisia gasped out. “Pierce, no.”

  Despite the way he had lived, Pierce Landcross had quietly slipped away.

  Taisia snapped her eyes open. Grandmother Fey slowly released her hands and nodded.

  “Was it . . . ?” Taisia caught her breath and reiterated, “Was it real? Will that actually happen?”

  A smiled barely touched a corner of Grandmother Fey’s lips. “There is a chance.”

  Taisia walked home alone, her mind heavy with the weight of her thoughts.

  There is a chance.

  Was there? Grandmother Fey had seemed damn sure Pierce would die, but now she had recanted that claim. Perhaps, while out there on the rocks, she had spoken to her spirits, who told her otherwise.

  What Grandmother Fey had revealed helped soothe some of Taisia’s worry. It also struck her as odd that in the vision, Pierce no longer had the scar across his throat or the vampire’s bite marks. Regardless, the prediction showed that her husband would grow old and that, when he did die, he’d leave the world peacefully.

  Thinking a little harder on it, she realized Pierce had survived plenty throughout his life. She had witnessed firsthand how often he had gotten himself out of danger. If he stood a chance to return safely, at least it was something. Grandmother Fey did claim the Sea Warriors would live if he came for them, thereby preventing them from enduring their horrible fate.

  Nico’s crew was gathered under the shady trees n
ear her hut, singing songs and playing instruments. Some were piling wood on the beach for another bonfire once night fell. Nico was reading a book in the hammock.

  “Nico,” Taisia said as she approached.

  “Oui, madame?”

  “Do you know where my husband is?”

  “He’s in the house with Lydia.”

  She entered and heard voices coming from the master bedroom. She came to the open doorway and found Pierce sitting in front of their small vanity dresser while Lydia stood behind him on an aged luggage trunk, holding a pair of shears. On the floor were locks of hair.

  “You’re not cutting too close to the scalp, eh?” Pierce asked nervously.

  “No, Daddy,” Lydia giggled, snipping off another lock.

  “Are you sure, Angelfish? Once I had to cut my hair short. Didn’t fancy it much.”

  “Why, Daddy? Why did you have to cut it?”

  “Erm,” he started to say. “’Cause, erm . . . er. Huh, that’s odd. I can’t recall why.”

  “Because he wanted to try something different,” Taisia answered for him while stepping into the room.

  “Hi, Mama,” Lydia greeted. “Do you like it?”

  Pierce turned to Taisia, and she strained to keep from laughing at how ridiculous he looked. Lydia had hacked the hair into thick layers, turning it into an uneven mess. She hadn’t given him a haircut; she had downright butchered his hair. Pierce’s pitiful expression suggested he didn’t have the heart to tell her how bad it really was.

  “It’s, uh, unique,” Taisia replied with amusement.

  Her daughter smiled and cut another lock off without much thought.

  “Lydia, will you take Nico to the lobster traps and have him check them, please?”

  “Can’t me and Daddy go?”

  Daddy’s little shadow.

  Taisia forced her smile when she said, “I need to speak to your father alone, my darling.”

  Sensing the direness in her tone, Pierce interjected, “Go ahead, Angelfish. If you bring any lobster, we’ll cook ’em up together, eh?”

  She frowned and appeared as though she might protest.

  “Off with you now,” he urged, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  Lydia huffed, “Oh, all right.”

  Taisia took the shears from her as she leaped off the luggage trunk. After she’d left, Taisia turned to her husband with an amused grin. “What do you think?”

  “Honestly?” he said grimly, turning back to the mirror. “It’s rubbish.”

  “It is rubbish,” she concurred. “Do you want me to fix it?”

  “Bloody hell, please,” he answered quickly.

  She took the brush and combed through his uneven strands. “Why did you allow her to do this to you?”

  “She caught me combing the knots out and insisted on cutting it after I foolishly told her that’s what I was going to do next.”

  “I see. Do you really not remember why you had to cut it short? It seems odd that you would forget anything.”

  “Believe it or not, I don’t. Maybe I’m getting lost in my old age.”

  She ran her free hand through the brush strokes. The touch of his hair was like silk. She adored the array of colors in each strand.

  “What did you need to speak to me about?” he asked as she began snipping away.

  Her throat and mouth went very dry. Her heart felt heavy in her chest. She just couldn’t believe what she was about to tell him.

  “I spoke to Grandmother Fey a little while ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “She showed me a prediction of the future—our future.”

  “Did she now? You know she can only show . . .?”

  “Pierce, please, let me finish.”

  He closed his mouth and waited. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. She held them back to keep them from falling.

  “I saw us as an elderly couple. We were both alive and happy.” She stopped cutting and slid her arm across his chest and pressed him against her as she whispered in his ear, “You were alive.”

  “Erm, so what does this mean?” he inquired as though waiting for the magic words.

  Taisia nestled her face in his hair and breathed him in. “I want you to go and save your friends.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Challenge

  Filip Faix tampered with the gears, giving the clock workers plenty to do. This time, he made the dial hands turn backward. It was their punishment for not keeping the clock tower clean while he was away. When he had returned from the riverboat gambling contest in America, he found oil stains on the floor, tools left out, and even liquor bottles strewn about. The workers had forgotten what happens when they were neglectful. No matter. He gave them a full day’s work to remind them that they needed to do better in keeping the place in tip-top shape.

  He rather enjoyed living inside the Astronomical Clocktower. The concept of the clock intrigued him, as it did the people of Prague. It was an architectural masterpiece. Filip Faix occupied his own places around the building. A favorite spot of his was the roof of the tower, where he read books, or in the room with the Apostles, where he would often plan his next scheme. In the top room, behind the upper clock, Filip Faix dressed himself in one of his usual outfits: a brocade vest, a clean shirt, and britches with suspenders. He had a full day of mischief ahead of him.

  His first visit was to Sweden, where he planned to deceive the entire town of Alingsås by making everything they ate taste like some other food. For a whole day, pears would have a grassy texture, chicken would touch the tongue like ham, coffee and beer would taste like each other, fish would be as sweet as cinnamon buns, fruits would taste like gubbröra, and so on. Aside from the humor it would cause, Filip Faix was also curious about how people were going to cope.

  When he arrived, however, the townspeople were already in a state of confusion, complaining that they were seeing colors differently, such as the sky being pink and the grass blue.

  Confused, Filip Faix went to California to swindle miners into giving him their gold, but he found some other bandit had beaten him to it and had stolen it from them already.

  He went to Brazil to start a new religion. This was his favorite trick. It didn’t take much effort, only a dream, a vision, or something as simple as a disembodied voice to convince an unsuspecting mortal that they were the “Chosen One.” When he arrived, he planned to fool a local boy into believing he was the messenger of this made-up religion, but he found the youth preaching in the middle of his village about some other god that had come to him.

  Everything Filip Faix had in mind had crumbled. Someone had stolen every idea of his and ruined his plans.

  When Filip Faix returned to the Astronomical Clock, he discovered he had a guest.

  Inside the apartment where he went to be alone with his thoughts, there was something sitting in a chair in the middle of the room.

  “Oh, hooray!” cheered the creature, tossing gold nuggets up into the air.

  An imp—a blasted little bastard imp—had spoiled his fun. She looked like an eight-year-old human child. The imp was a cross between adorable and grotesque. The front of her face was somewhat normal—round, glassy eyes, tiny nose, and thin lips over a pointy chin. But integrated into her head, shoulders, torso, and all the way down to her toes were leaves, vines, plant roots, and moss. It appeared as if she had broken out of the ground, taking much of the earth with her. She smelt of rot and mildew, as well as fresh rain and spring flowers.

  Filip Faix wanted to charge at her right then and massacre her. And he’d do so if she wouldn’t simply vanish. It wouldn’t even be worth the years it would take to chase her down.

  She clapped loudly while swinging her little legs back and forth. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Despite her callow mannerisms, she must have been centuries old.

  “For what reason?” he demanded. “To gloat over stealing my ideas?”

  The imp stood. She touched her chest with long, ski
nny fingers that stuck out beyond the moss on the top of her hand. Her expression was devilish as she smirked at him. “I needed to snare your attention.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I’ve known about you for a very long while. Remember when you introduced humanism and in turn created the Renaissance?”

  Filip Faix chuckled despite himself. He was most proud of that one.

  “You caught my eye, then,” the imp confessed. “You intrigue me now.”

  “Why?”

  “You managed to capture a demon! Not many can say they’ve successfully done that, even a Trickster such as yourself.”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  “You do enjoy bragging at parties, you know. Word tends to spread.”

  She made a good point. Gossip was just as widely disseminated across the realms of the supernatural as it was in the planes of mortals.

  “You’re the challenge I’ve been searching for,” said the imp.

  Ah, the challenge. With immortals, or for those whose life spans stretched for hundreds of years, they always had to find ways to amuse themselves. A challenge was good for passing the time, especially a dangerous one.

  “What sort of challenge are you looking for?” Filip Faix wondered aloud, strictly out of curiosity.

  In truth, he had no intention to accept what childish dare this imp had in mind.

  The imp rushed up and jumped on him. She latched onto his coat collar, her long nails and toenails digging into his nice clothing and scraping against his skin. Dammit, if she wouldn’t have disappeared the moment he reached for her throat, he’d have strangled her.

  She looked him dead in the eye. “What I offer is some deadly fun.”

  “Deadly for whom?”

  She snorted and answered blithely, “For us, silly.”

  He raised a curious eyebrow. “What are you proposing?”

  “A treasure hunt. I even got a spirit to write up a list of all sorts of things to find, as well as clues for you and me to follow.”

  He studied the imp and searched deep inside her mind. He needed to know just how genuine she was being, and if this was truly her idea or if someone had put her up to it. He peered into her memories and saw how she had learned about the Renaissance (which he had founded), and that she had also nagged the spirit of an Erinye to draw up a list of items. With her, there were no tricks, and no intention of cheating to win. Everything she told him was true.