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Wedgewood
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The walk-lanterns were lit, as were the ladder and porch lights in the tree houses and forts. Seen from afar, they looked like giant Will-O-the-Wisps hovering high in the trees. Cool air from the mountain flowed down the ravines, relieving the heat of the day. Soon, it would be cold. The four of them approached Cordelei Greenleaf’s bungalow; Knot Head tagged along behind, eating anything more tempting than a rock. Buzz Too’s beak pointed left and right like a wind vane, taking in everything. When Outish made to pet it, it squatted lower on Marisa’s shoulder and refused to acknowledge him.
“What’s wrong with Buzz?” Outish asked.
“He’s pouting,” answered Marisa, her trepidations mounting, staring at Cordelei’s grass-roofed hut half-buried in the mountainside. At the acknowledgment of its mood, Buzz fluffed and preened its fake feathers. “Okay, fine,” she said, “you may resume normal mode.”
“Free! The shackles are burst! May the world be enlightened with parrot wisdom! Mere Human mortals are but flotsam and jetsam in the cosmic sea without my—Brawk!”
Lettern’s grasp had him. She tapped a fingernail on his beak. “Bird-brain,” she hissed in the night, “you feel that?”
Buzz bobbed its head.
“Then, if you want to keep it, shut that little bird trap of yours.” She tossed it in the air, and Buzz flew to a tree, squawking molestation and animal rights abuse and threatening legal action.
“You worried?” Lettern asked Marisa.
Her bun and stiletto hilt nodded in the dark. “What if she can’t—”
“She can,” answered Meridia. “Lettern confirmed it with Brookern. Did you notice the matriarch did not question the idea?”
Marisa peered at him. “I was wondering about that.”
Meridia idly scratched Knot Head behind the ears as the goat sought to rub against him. “I’ve been reading the message traffic on the Dianis IDB-Matrincy channel. There is definitely a spirit flux centered on her. Her aural emanations are similar to the matriarch’s when unshielded.”
“Oi, she gives me the swamp willies,” confessed Outish.
“Which one?” asked Lettern.
“Both of them,” he said.
Cordelei’s walk-lamp cast a yellow, unwavering illumination into the forest. Somehow, it was not as welcoming as the other walk-lights. Two candles burned in the window of the cottage. An owl piped high in the trees above, and a large animal, judging by the tread of its four legs, moved in the inky blackness. Meridia could feel the goat’s head point in that direction.
“This is where you leave us?” Marisa looked to Lettern.
“Illy and I will be up in my loft. Cordelei is friendly enough. If you need anything, send bird-brain.”
Marisa’s bun bobbed.
They stepped on the stoop, and the boards creaked, a huge sound in the silent night.
Before Outish could knock on the door, it was pulled open. “You’re late,” said a woman with close-cropped hair. “The witching has begun.”
Outish swallowed audibly. “Witching?”
Cordelei stepped aside, “Come in.”
The bungalow was snug; the first thing Marisa noticed, other than the incense, was the multitude of burning candles. They were everywhere as if wards against evil spirits.
“Sit, we must begin.”
Outish and Marisa took their seats at a small table in front of the voyant. In the candlelight, Marisa studied the woman. She’d heard the nickname: Sour Dour. The corners of Cordelei’s mouth were turned down in severe arcs, her lips were thin, and her jaw set in a firm clamp. Sadness veritably wept from her eyes as if all the world’s sorrows bore witness through their lenses. She had a measured, deliberate manner as she took her seat, carefully arranging her long woolen skirt. In stark contrast, in an apparent, if odd, attempt to obviate her character, she wore a colorful Doroman scarf over her white linen blouse. Baryy and Achelous had been here before, but Achelous had been loath to speak of the encounter. Baryy, on the other hand, had recounted it to Outish in stark detail.
“Are you going to start the hourglass?” Marisa asked.
Cordelei pierced her with a gaze that lingered a long moment. “No. For you, this is free.”
“What’s the Witching?” asked Outish.
“A special time,” answered the voyant. “A time when the spirits in the nether realm are willing to speak. Some will even want to speak.”
Marisa leaned forward. “I didn’t think you were a necromancer. We don’t need one of those.”
Cordelei’s perpetual frown sunk lower. “We scry our visions with the skills we have.”
There came the patter of rain on the windows, and thunder sounded low and indistinct. A gust of wind buffeted the cottage, and all the candles flickered as one. A fresh waft of incense drifted past Marisa, a pleasant, soothing smell, not acrid and irritating like the marshcat of the Coaster hollows.
“You seek a man, so Brookern has said.” Cordelei’s eyes shifted to Outish and then back to Marisa.
“Yes,” said Marisa, “I’m searching for a man named Achelous,” and she pulled Achelous’ handbolt out of her bag and sat it on the table. “Outish said you needed something personal belonging to Achelous.”
“I know this man, Achelous. I have seen him here, in Wedgewood.”
“Yes, he’s a trader. He comes here often. He’s been—”
“Yes, I know,” preempted Cordelei.
Reaching behind her, the voyant retrieved a pouch and a pipe from the shelf. From the pouch she extracted a pinch of an herb, packed it into the pipe, and lit a taper from a candle.
Marshcat thought, Marisa.
Puffing on her pipe, Cordelei picked up a wooden doll rod and used it to draw the handbolt towards her without touching it. “Has this killed people?”
Marisa swallowed. “Yes, yes, I think so.” She recalled the gruesome image of the Scarlet Savoir in her study with half his head sliced away.
“And did Achelous do it? The killing?”
“Yes.”
For once, the voyant looked positive. She placed a finger on the hilt of the weapon, puffed on her pipe, and closed her eyes.
Outish sat transfixed. The longer the voyant held her finger on the weapon, the lower his head dipped to the table, almost as if he were trying to look in her mouth. Marisa nudged him with her foot, and he started.
Cordelei’s eyes opened. “Ask me your questions.”
“Is he alive?” they both said in unison. Marisa scowled at him. “I’ll ask the questions.”
“Yes,” Cordelei said, thoughtfully considering the woman across from her.
The next question was more painful, “Is he, is he okay?”
The voyant tilted her head. “He has been tortured.”
Marisa blanched. She swallowed. “How bad?”
“He survives. He is not broken, but they have time.”
Marisa shook her head, “Why do they have time?”
“Because you are here, and he is there.”
“Where’s there?” asked Outish
“On a ship.”
“Where? What ship?” Marisa rose in her chair.
Cordelei shook her head. “It does not matter.”
“Doesn’t matter? Why not?” Marisa asked, irritated.
“Because you’ll not find him at sea,” Cordelei answered, an edge to her voice.
Marisa settled back down, confused. “Can you tell me where he is?”
The voyant quit puffing on her pipe and held it smoking in her hand. “He is at sea, on a ship, on an ocean. And you will not find him there.”
Still struggling with the notion, Marisa asked, “Why not?”
“Because my visions say you won’t.”
“We won’t ever find him?” blurted Outish.
Cordelei turned her gaze on him. “Hold out your hand.”
His mouth clamped shut, and he looked wide-eyed.
“Your hand,” she demanded.
When he raised his left hand from beneath the table, she said, “No, the other hand.”
Flummoxed, he showed her his right hand.
She saw the glove. “Remove it.”
Reluctantly, he pulled it off.
Cordelei puffed on her pipe, but it had gone out. She set it down. Reaching out, she stroked her fingers across the fur of his hand. “You are not of this world, either.”
He shook his head.
“Is that important?” asked Marisa.
“Perhaps,” Cordelei answered. She eyed the dormant pipe as if it were out of answers but then offered another one of her own, “Yes, you will find Achelous.”
“When,” they asked in unison.
“Before the snow.”
“Where is he?” asked Outish.
Exasperated, the voyant untied her scarf. “Have you not listened? It is not important where he is, but where you will find him.”
“Okay,” Marisa began to understand how to ask questions of prescient. “Where will we find him?”
“In the Citadel.”
The End.
I write to entertain you. That is my passion. The story has shifted you, in the hours of your choosing, from Earth to Dianis, where you can find temporary relief from your Earthly trials and follow, from the safety of your abode, your favorite characters. I sincerely hope you enjoyed the time. Please go to Books by Frank Dravis (or use the QR Code below) and post your thoughts by clicking on the Write Customer Review button. I’d love to hear who those favorite characters are.
A preview of the next chronicle, The Citadel, follows.
