Chapter 6

 

At what point the night peeled away to reveal the dawn, David could not remember. He had been too busy clinging to his side of the mortar so as not to tumble out from the pull of the wind, and too focused on not passing out or retching over the side. As the light crept up, bleeding the sky from blackness to purple to teal, David could see that they had left land behind and were flying over a vast stretch of water—they must be over the English Channel, or possibly as far as the North Sea. It reminded him of the time he had ridden upon the back of Yofune Nushi, the ancient sea dragon, when he had fallen through the Curtain and wound up in Japan. But that ride had been short and tolerable enough; this ride felt like it was going on for an eternity.

“Would you relax?” Baba Yaga said, who looked as at ease flying in her mortar as if she were drinking tea. “Baba won’t let you fall out. Besides, we are making good time. My mortar always knows where to go—used to live on my bookshelf next to globe, taught it about all lands and oceans. Although it says it would like to know exactly where the house of your friend is. Scotland may not be as big as Russia, but it is hard to find one person in a whole country.”

David swallowed down a lump in his throat. “The last time I saw Gullin, we met in a pub in London while I was traveling on business. He told me he lived right outside…I should remember this…it was the village that is widely known for its bath house with supposedly healing spring water. Muffet, I think…”

Baba huffed. “My mortar says you must mean Moffat. All this love and marriage mush makes my stomach ache…”

“The sun’s coming up, Baba. We don’t have the night to hide us anymore. Shouldn’t you hide us with a cloaking spell so people below won’t see us?”

“Well, well, well, look who knows so much about magic and such,” Baba scoffed. “Why waste magic on cloaking spell, when people are so good at convincing themselves they do not see what they do not understand? If someone sees two people in a mortar fly by, they will wonder if they actually saw such a thing, and then decide not, because to believe such a thing would upturn everything they know. It is easier to pass off something as imagination than accept change in reality.”

David remembered all the times when he was younger, and he would tell his parents, his brothers, his schoolmates, and the neighbors the fantastic stories he read in his folklore and fairy tale books. They would smile and nod, or chuckle at his naïve enthusiasm, or roll their eyes. They all believed it was imagination; he had believed it to be reality. How he wished he could show everyone how real his “imagination” was, that there were such things as sphinxes, and dragons, and true magic. Then again, he probably didn’t want everyone to know about a world-eating wolf on the loose or a night god who could drain other’s talents with body-inhabiting Shades.

“We should still try to avoid being seen,” David insisted. “If we can find some remote place to set this mortar down not too far from Moffat, we can walk into town and ask if anyone knows Gullin.” He swallowed back another lump in his throat as the mortar made a sudden unexpected dip downwards. “The sooner, the better,” he wheezed.

David’s nausea ebbed a little as he watched the tranquil beauty of the Scottish countryside whisk by beneath him. He had never seen any place so vibrantly green, not even in the gaudy shades of Paris’s latest ladies’ fashions. Here and there, weathered but cozy stone cottages with thatched roofs were nestled in the earth like grand toadstools. The fields were dotted with hundreds of cloud puffs, an earth-bound stratosphere of sheep. Apparently, a large mortar flying directly over their heads did little to concern the sheep, as they meandered and munched contentedly on the grass. Slowly, the mortar began to descend towards one of the fields, and a circle of sheep scattered as they approached to land.

“My mortar says Moffat is over the hill,” Baba said, and huffed as the mortar thudded heavily into the ground, teetering for a moment before settling still. “Hope you’re happy. You make an old lady have to walk through field full of mud and who knows what else with all these four-legged yarn balls.”

David picked up his bundled weapons and climbed out of the mortar as his shoes sank an inch into the muddy ground. He barely had time to turn around to see the mortar shrink back down to its pocket size, as did the pestle in Baba’s hand. She picked up the mortar and plopped it and its pestle back into the pouch at her waist. She trudged ahead, glancing at David over her shoulder. “You go find your friend. I’m going to find a good drink.”

 

After having spent his life in cities like Cervera and Paris, the main square of Moffat seemed to David like a one-page illustration from a children’s storybook. It was refreshing in its rustic quaintness, but felt unnervingly intimate in the close cluster of white-painted homes, shops, and inns. David was hopeful that someone in this place must know Gullin, or at least had seen him recently. It seemed that in a town this small, everyone must know everybody who lived in the area.

Baba made a beeline for the first tavern she spotted. David followed her. A tavern was as good as any place to start looking for Gullin, given that it was a pub where David had run into him last time. He entered the tavern and received curious glances from the patrons. David clearly stood out, not only because he was a stranger in a small town, but his fashionable Parisian attire was a remarkable clash with the simple rural apparel of the Scottish townsfolk. Yet no one appeared threatened or alarmed by him. From what Gullin had mentioned, hundreds flocked to Moffat to experience the rejuvenating waters of the bathhouse near the town hall—some even considered the waters miraculous. People of all types must have passed through this town, so an unfamiliar face was nothing new to them. For all they knew, he was another visitor wanting to try the sulfurous waters. Given that he had entered right after Baba, the patrons might think he was her caretaker, here to see that she was given the Moffat healing treatment.

Baba plopped herself down at a vacant table and snapped her fingers at David.

“Fetch me drink, and make it strong.”

Now several patrons were glancing at David with amused expressions. David shrugged and walked over to the bar. He could see movement beneath the counter, the backside of a white shirt. “Excuse me, could I have two drinks, please? A tea for me, and something that would incapacitate a bull for my friend.”

A hand reached up to place two glass mugs on the countertop. David leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I was also hoping you might know a man who lives outside of town. His name is Gullin. Has he been here?”

The figure beneath the counter stood up. David blinked in bewilderment at the brawny woman with a mass of sepia-brown curls that stood before him. “You wouldn’t be talking about that no-good sauced scoundrel Alasdair Gullin, would you?”

David bit his lip. He was surprised, and slightly embarrassed, that he had never learned Gullin’s first name—in fact, he had thought all this time that Gullin was his first name. “Well…he has copper-red hair, a beard, he’s about a foot taller than I. He has a tattoo of a silver spear crossed by two golden arrows, with a white lily entwining them.”

The woman brought up a bottle from under the counter and started pouring the liquid into the mugs. “Whatcha want with that lazy no account bum? Goes wandering off whenever he feels like it, prances around like he’s the cock of the walk, never lifts a finger to help his gorgeous, darling wife who deserves a thousand times better than that lump of matted hair and skunk musk.”

David smiled, giving her a small bow. “You must be Beatrice. Your husband told me all about you the last time we met, except he didn’t mention you own a tavern.”

Beatrice shot him a half-grin. “I only own it when my Da is laid up in bed with the shakes, or a booze-battered brain. Normally I’m just the help. As for what my husband might’ve said about me, don’t believe a word that liar says.”

“He said you were fierce enough to tackle a bear.”

“He did?” She put the bottle down and beamed. “How sweet. Or maybe you’re just putting in a good word for him. How do you know him?”

“We met a few years ago, back when he was…traveling.” David wasn’t sure what Gullin had told Beatrice about his life before they were married. Did she know he had once been a Master Huntsman, a member of the secret guild that hunted mythical monsters and legendary beasts? Had he mentioned that he had been part of the traveling caravan that had been guarded over by Acacia? David highly doubted Gullin would have ever mentioned Acacia—not because Acacia was a sphinx, but because of old feelings that Gullin had harbored for her, and David was sure Gullin didn’t want to dwell on them.

“Ah. You seem a bit more refined than the usual lot he makes for company. Shame none of your good manners rubbed off on ‘im.” Beatrice finished pouring the drinks and shoved them towards David. “On the house. A little Moffat hospitality.”

“Thank you.” David peered into the mugs at the dark swill. He thought better than to ask Beatrice about the tea he had ordered and picked up the mugs. “So, is Gullin in town with you today?”

Beatrice nodded her head in the direction behind David. “He’s hard to miss,” she said.

David had not realized that the other patrons of the tavern had gathered around one table, and there was laughter and verbal goading emitting from the crowd. He could hear one voice among the others, a familiar male Scottish brogue: “Don’t be expectin’ me to go soft on you. I take my battles seriously, even if you be older than Hadrian’s Wall!”

David set the drinks down and dashed over, trying to squirm his way past the other patrons towards the table. His mouth dropped open as he watched Gullin, face set in eager determination, thick muscular arm propped on its elbow upon the tabletop, prepare to arm wrestle an equally eager-looking Baba.

“As do I, even if you be as thick as wall,” Baba replied.

David tried to step in, reaching forwards to grab at Gullin’s and Baba’s arms. The crowd was pressed in too tightly, and David had to shout to be heard above them. “Stop it, you two! Gullin!”

Gullin turned his head towards David. The intensity dropped from his face, and his eyebrows shot up. “David?”

Baba took advantage of the distraction and slammed Gullin’s arm backwards down onto the table. The crowd cheered and hollered, and a few coins were exchanged among hands from those who had placed bets.

Gullin glowered at Baba. “You cheated, woman!”

Baba leaned back in her chair, grinning. “I do not cheat. You do not take battles seriously.”

“Enough!” David broke through the barricade of patrons and stepped up to the table. The patrons, seeing that the arm-wrestling match was over, dispersed back to their respective tables. David crossed his arms. “I don’t want to know how this started. You two should not be fighting.”

“Then what’s the point of making new friends?” Gullin asked.

“Yes, do not spoil fun,” Baba agreed.

David wiped a hand over his face. “I forget how all of you people are crazy.”

Gullin laughed and stood up to clap David on the back. “How have you been, boyo? You came all this way to visit your good friend Gullin, eh? And you brought your grannie with you.” He grasped David’s shoulder with a hard grip and leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “Your grannie who any Master Huntsman worth his salt can tell from a mile away is a bana-bhuidseach, so if she’s put some curse on you to do her bidding, you tell me and I’ll put that witch in her place.”

David shook his head. “No, no, she helped me find you. She’s good…I think. But Gullin, there’s something I must talk to you about. It’s important, and we may not have much time—”

“I’m guessing there’s trouble on the other side of the Curtain, aye? Best we talk about it elsewhere.” Gullin drew back, releasing David’s shoulder and ruffling his hair. “Paris life has been softening you up. A hearty helping of my wife’s cooking will fill you out. Are you staying in town? ‘Cause I insist you save your coins and come spend a day or two at my place. Always plenty of room for a guest or two…” He smirked at Baba. “…and a half.”

“Does not matter whether we stay in town, or stay at your house,” Baba said. “Will smell you no matter where we are.”

“I like her.” Beatrice approached the table, smiling at Baba. “You’re more than welcome to stay at our place. I could use some intelligent conversation for a change.”

“You see this, boyo? See how the ladies all band together against me?” Gullin shook his head. “Thank the Lord we’ve got a son. I don’t need a daughter siding with my wife.”

“Speaking of sons,” Beatrice said, digging her fists into her hips. “Where is Ian?”

Gullin blanched, and he dropped to his hands and knees to search beneath the table, his chair, and around on the floor. “Aye, the wee blighter couldn’t have wandered far on such tiny legs…”

David was about to search as well when he noticed a small hand clinging to the side of Beatrice’s skirt. A face topped by copper-colored hair peeked out from behind her.

Beatrice looked at David and winked.

Gullin was crawling around on the floor to look under various tables. Sweat was rolling down his face. “Ian! Has anyone seen a wee one scuttling about?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes and looked down at the little boy clinging to her. “Go to your father before his heart explodes.”

The little boy waddled out from behind his mother and tackled Gullin by wrapping his arms around the big man’s neck. Gullin laughed, picking up the boy in his arms and swinging him about while Ian giggled wildly. “You and your mother are going to be the death of me!”

David laughed. “Your son can’t be more than a year old, and he’s already a troublemaker?”

Beatrice tipped her head at Gullin. “We know whose bloodline he’s got to thank for that.”

“Please, woman. If he were all your bloodline, he’d been born a dragon.” He went over and kissed Beatrice to make amends for the comment, and she readily forgave him with a return kiss.

It struck David as funny that Gullin had such a sensitive, fatherly side, after knowing him as a veracious fighter and hunter. He knew the Scotsman was a fiercely loyal person as well; his wife and son couldn’t be in more protective hands. David glanced over at Baba, and noticed there was a strange expression on her face—she didn’t look sad, exactly, but more wistful. For some reason, it seemed to David the look of someone who was silently mourning the absence, or loss, of something beautiful in her life.

 

Before it grew too dark outside, Beatrice closed the tavern early as her father had yet to recover from his ailment, which she was sure was his reoccurring case of bad indigestion. Beatrice, with Ian in her arms, David, and Baba Yaga all clambered into a big wooden cart that Gullin had parked outside the tavern, along with an ivory-coated Clydesdale horse tied to a post next to a watering trough. David recognized the horse instantly—it was one of the six horses that had once pulled the wagons of the traveling caravan that belonged to Acacia. When the horse looked over at David and gave him a long snort, David believed it was also the horse he had stolen in his one attempt to escape the caravan. The horse probably never forgave him for being stolen or riding him straight into danger involving a group of blood-craving living dolls.

Gullin hooked up the horse to the cart and climbed up into the driver’s seat. He took up the reins, clicked his tongue, and the horse pulled the cart along at a casual pace. “Best we be getting back to the homestead now,” Gullin commented. “Need to make sure the farmhand hasn’t burned down the house.”

The ride was four or five miles down the road east of Moffat. The cart rattled up to a modest plot of land, not the wide expanse of a typical farm but enough for a handful of sheep and goats to graze nearby the house. The house was built from large blocks of quarry stone with a thatched roof, with a three-foot-tall stone wall marking the perimeter of the Gullins’ land. There was a crude stable in the back where the horse and cart were kept, and a wooden shed that could house a decent store of rations for the winter months.

As the cart approached, a young man dressed in a mud-coated work shirt and breeches came out of the house to greet them. David could tell from the first sight, even at a distance, that the man was not of Scottish heritage. His skin was a little more tanned, his hair black as raven feathers, and his eyes were small, dark, and piercing.

“Is that your farmhand?” David asked.

Gullin nodded. “Aye, he’s a bit odd in the head. Was a vagrant, I suspect. He says he came from a country far away. One day he shows up, asking for work and a place to stay. Normally I don’t need ruffians around, but he’s proven to be a good man, a hard worker. Has a gift for keeping the foxes away, and he looks after Ian when we need to be away.”

“When I need to be away,” Beatrice said, “and when you want to go cavorting whenever and wherever you darn well please.”

The farmhand came up to the side of the cart as Gullin tugged at the reins to halt the horse. “Good day, Mister Gullin,” he said with hesitant English. “I will take the cart…”

His tongue froze when he saw David in the cart. The farmhand stared, his eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. David could not imagine what surprised the young man so; maybe it was so rare for Gullin to bring guests home, the farmhand did not know how to react. But then a wide smile, bordering on laughter, blossomed across the farmhand’s face. He took one step towards David with a childlike eagerness, but then he halted. He stepped back, his smile dropping into a sheepish grin.

“Ru, we have guests tonight,” Gullin said. “This is an old friend of mine, David San…Sandy-something.” He looked back at David with an apologetic shrug.

“Sandoval. And it’s okay. I didn’t know you had a first name until today.”

“That’s still more than most of his so-called friends know,” Beatrice noted.

Gullin gestured towards Baba. “And this is his old lady. Treat them as you would treat my family.”

“Yes, sir,” Ru said quietly. He glanced back up at David, that funny, cheerful smile on his face again.

Baba was giving Ru a long, good scrutinizing. She snorted, the corner of her lip twisting into something between a frown and a sneer. “Where are you from, boy?”

Ru turned his eyes to her, and David could swear the man was chattering his teeth. Ru turned his gaze down to the ground. “Far away,” he replied.

“I would figure. Don’t see much of your type,” Baba said.

David stood up to help Baba down from the cart. She pulled her arm away from him, giving him a nasty look. “Don’t need help from scrawny boy like you,” she said.

David lowered his voice. “What do you mean, ‘his type’? Why does he look scared of you?”

Baba chuckled. “Who is not scared of Baba? But he is nervous because I see him for what he truly is. But no matter. He is not dangerous.”

“What is he, really?”

Baba shrugged. “Who is anyone, really? But no worries. That one could do no worse than put lots of holes in garden.”

David helped Beatrice down from the cart, who gave him an appreciative smile before casting Gullin a glance that said, “See, this is what manners look like.” As the family and Baba walked into the house, David took one more look at Ru, who was guiding the horse and cart towards the stable. It struck David then, where he had seen those facial traits before. It had been when the Curtain had taken him to a faraway land, halfway around the world from France. A place where he had made helpful allies, who had become good friends to him, and had helped him save Acacia’s life from Nyx’s shade.

But for a man to have come from that land, it would have taken him many months to travel that far, and that would have required money that this poor farmhand could not possibly have. Unless…he could travel through the Curtain…