Chapter Nine

Next peculiar incident; onward with my wacko tale. Wacko but, I assert once more, completely true. I had decided, by then, that Mr. Sedate Face had either gone completely mad, or was already mad. Would I have noticed in the pub that afternoon if I hadn’t been intent on selling him the gold? More plausibly, of course, he had devised a plan to get his money back and keep the gold as well. Precious metal into powdery dirt? Nonsense. Brothers Grimm stuff.

Where was I? Yes. I decided to take a walk. No, not sidestepping into the woods—although, by then, I had deduced a “rational” explanation for that incident as well. But better safe than superstitious. As per Joe’s advice, I’d remain on the path. Okay. Well done. A walk on the path, no more.

That was my plan, at any rate. Which I observed in the beginning, not even pausing by the other path to see if the white feather was still there. Idiotic if I had, my mind declared without hesitation. Why would a feather remain in place? A feather, for God’s sake? Subject to any random breeze? That was—

Before my mind could present the word “ridiculous,” I heard a voice calling to me. “Young man!”

I confess to several moments of good sense reversal, several moments of pure primitive dread. It’s a fay-erie! cried my momentarily disabled brain, awareness clobbered. That’s how I thought it was pronounced.

To my credit, I fought it off. Don’t be absurd, I ordered myself; it was not a damn fay-erie! And, with that, I abruptly recalled what I imagined (or thought I imagined) my last day on the path; again, a voice calling me, the words indistinct.

I forced myself to turn. Another moment of temporary trepidation (good phrase, that). Then, once more, bathing my mind with satisfaction, rationality returned. (Not so good a phrase.) It was a woman standing near the foot of the path. A tall red-haired woman dressed in most un-fay-erielike clothes, such as might be worn by any female resident of Gatford. Not a tiny, winged, transparently gowned fay-erie. Well, Joe did say they could shape-shift, my maddening brain insisted on recalling. Oh, shut up! I told my maddening brain.

“Come over here,” the woman said, her voice and smile inviting.

Oh, damn, I thought. Isn’t that the sort of invitation one would expect from the “wee folk”? I had to fight that off as well. I didn’t move, however. I remained fixed in place.

Amazing how a few well-spoken words can totally undo the superstitious angst of any given moment. That was the exact result of what the woman said to me. “Don’t worry, I’m not a faerie. I’m a real person.”

Something was released in me, like an unblocked flow of water, fresh, invigorating water. Returning the woman’s kind smile, I approached her. “There, that’s better,” she said, sounding relieved.

“I’m sorry, I apologize,” I felt obligated to say.

“Not at all,” she said, excusing my dubious behavior. “I don’t know how long you’ve been in Gatford, but if any time at all, you’ve undoubtedly been exposed to local old wives’ tales.”

Or old roofers’ tales, I thought. I returned her renewed smile—it was a lovely smile (on her part, I mean, I don’t know about mine) and said, “I have. A lot of them.”

“Too bad,” she responded. “They can be overdone.”

Indeed, I thought. “They can,” I agreed.

Another smile—completely lovely—as she extended her hand for shaking. “I’m Magda Variel,” she said.

“Alex White,” I told her. Her grip was comforting, her palm warm against mine.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Alex,” she said.

I nodded. “Thank you,” I repeated. Why did you say that? I questioned myself. Not very gracious. Immediately, I added, “I’m glad to meet you.” Glad? I questioned my brain again. You mean “pleased,” don’t you? Well, what the hell; I let it go. How old was she, anyway?

“Would you like to see where I live?” she asked.

Again, my provoking brain came up with several vexing ideas: The witch inviting Hansel and Gretel into her gingerbread house. A shape-shifted faerie luring me to Middle Earth. A crazy woman asking me to visit in order to dissect me? In one piece, Joe had said.

God, it was hard to fight that off! Near impossible. But I did it, more power to my teenage strength of character—or denseness. I wouldn’t do it now. I was uncomfortable.

Through all this, Magda, the lovely (she was lovely, I realized), tall, red-haired woman, waited patiently, saying finally, “Still uneasy?”

“No,” I lied.

“Come, let me take your arm, then,” she said, taking my arm. I positively shuddered. “Lord, you are afraid,” she said. “I’m sorry. Would you rather not do this?”

“No, I’m sorry,” I lied again, “I have been exposed to too many old wives’ tales.” (“To too”—Arthur Black would have shuddered at that ugly combination; but I was only eighteen, what did I know?)

“Yes, you have,” Magda Variel responded. “Far too many.”

“Onward, then,” I said bravely (at least sensibly).

We walked together into the woods. If A. Black had written that sentence in one of his shock boilers, it would have presaged ghastly events. As it was, our entrance into the silent woods presaged nothing. I thought.

“So tell me,” I said, “these old wives’ tales. Are they all nonsense?”

“Not all,” she answered casually. Evoking another involuntary shudder by her very vulnerable (not too bad a phrase, not too outstanding either) teenage companion. “You’re still afraid,” she said.

“I guess I am, a little,” I admitted. “This has been a most unusual month. I’m trying to deal with it. But it hasn’t been easy.”

“I understand,” she said. “My first year here was very trying—all the stories people told me—that they swore were true.”

“But you said they aren’t all nonsense,” I reminded her.

“That’s right, they’re not,” she told me, “but nothing to be alarmed about.”

“Fay-eries,” I said, “the way I say it. Faeries, then. Do they really exist?”

“Oh, they exist,” said Magda, not realizing that she chilled my bones with the reply. “Not so plentiful as many Gatfordites would have you believe. But some of them are real hooligans mostly. Fooligans.”

“Fooligans?” Despite my uneasiness, the word amused me.

“Hooligans who like to fool you,” Magda said. “I made up the word.”

That evoked a snicker from me. “How do they fool you?” I asked.

“Oh, many ways,” she answered. “Taking things away from you. Bringing unexpected things to you. Making trees or bushes shake. Oh, now you’re frightened again,” she said, reacting to my reflex shudder.

I told her about my experience by the stream that past afternoon. She agreed with me that I had probably misinterpreted the abruptly rustling foliage. On the other hand, it might have been a faerie-induced stir. “If so,” she said, “you’re fortunate they teased you no more than that. They could have done you harm. They probably liked you, though, for some reason.”

“Well, I’m very likable,” I said, the thin waver of my voice revealing my actual emotion—minor terror at her words.

She smiled, knowing what I felt. “You are likeable,” she said, tightening her grip on my arm. I felt a warmth of gratitude for her sympathy. Like a mother, I thought. A beautiful mother.

“Just remember one thing,” she went on, “they cannot—will not harm you if you treat them with respect. If you want, I’ll give you several means of protecting yourself against possible intrusions.”

“Thank you,” I murmured. I was not exactly grateful to her. I would have preferred her to agree with my original estimation, that the entire subject was—sorry—bullshit. Or, as a later spokesman called it, bull pucky. But it wasn’t; if I were to accept Magda Variel’s words—and there was little reason at the moment not to do so.

In that moment, we emerged from the silent, uneasymaking woods.

“There’s my house,” said Magda.

I confess to being startled by the sight. Not so much by the house itself as by the sweeping expanse of lawn leading up to it. I had never seen such a wide, open lawn extending to a cottage. Not that Magda’s house struck me as being a cottage. It was, in fact, more like a Victorian mansion. Backed up against a tree-thick woods that stretched to the stream (I later learned). The house—I can’t, in conscience, describe it as a cottage—was a mix of brick and timbering, the upper floor supported by iron brackets, the roof made of red tiles, the two brick chimneys tall and ornamental. The front door entrance was obscured by an archway on each side of which were hedges shaped like baby carriages—or “prams,” as I suppose they were called back then. A dirt path led to the archway, a narrow stream of water flowing across it.

“Very nice,” I said. “Did you have it built?”

“No, no.” She smiled in amusement. “It was built in 1857. I purchased it six years ago. That is, my husband purchased it.” She paused. “He died some years ago.” Was that addendum meant for me? Probably not; I let the idea go.

*   *   *

There were dried leaves fastened to the door. “What are they for?” I asked. Naïvely.

“For protection,” she said, opening the door.

I knew immediately—without seeing more than the hint of a smile on her lips—that she was teasing me. “From the fay-eries?” I said, trying (and failing) to sound serious.

She laughed softly. “I thought you’d believe that,” she said.

“Not quite,” I said. “Almost.”

“Come in, my dear,” she told me in a deliberately creaking voice.

Plump and ready for the oven, I thought of replying. I didn’t say it, though. The joke had gone beyond the pale. For me, anyway.

It had for Magda, too. “Oh, do come in, Mr. White,” she said in her normal (warm) voice. “I may end up kissing you discreetly, but I won’t be roasting you for dinner.”

“Glad to hear it,” I replied. I wasn’t really mollified. (Is that the word?) Kissing me discreetly? Was that appropriate flirtation? She was old enough to be my mother. And Mother would never flirt with a teenage boy. Would she?

At any rate, regardless of my frame of mind, I entered the cottage of Magda Variel.

My first reaction was as follows: Jesus, it’s so gloomy! It was. So much so that, initially, I could not see anything. Then my vision focused and I saw—not clearly, but barely—shelves of books, crammed with dark leather volumes, several chairs, a sofa (I’m not sure what they called it back then), and a large round table.

What I did see—very visibly—was a painting, above the mantel of an oversize fireplace. I saw it so visibly because on each side of it was a glass-encased candle, burning and illuminating the painting.

It was the portrait of a young man—about my age, I guessed, delicately handsome—I can’t think of a better way to describe him. It was as though some fastidious Renaissance artist had chosen to describe an angel on Earth—innocent and beautiful. That was Edward. He was attired in (how perfect) Edwardian finery, looking very elegant, indeed. And smiling. A most pleasant smile that—predictably, I later realized—reminded me of Magda’s pleasing smile. I knew, in an instant, who it was—her son who had (as Joe had told me) died in the war.

“You’re looking at Edward,” Magda said, breaking into what had been a noticeable silence on my part.

“Yes,” I said. “He died in the war, didn’t he?” I winced at the temerity of my remark. What if I was wrong?

But I wasn’t. Magda’s questioning took on an edge. “How did you know that?” she asked. Close to demanded.

“Well”—I felt compelled to lie; I don’t know exactly why—“I was in France. And the portrait hanging there is like a…” The word eluded me.

“A shrine?” said Magda. I felt that I had truly offended her. There was only one solution: the truth. I told her that the man who repaired the roof tiles on my cottage said that there “was a woman” who had lost her son in France.

I must have said it convincingly, a gift (or a failing) I have when speaking the truth; Magda relaxed quickly—I could see as she lit an oil lamp on the table. “I’m sorry,” she said, as though she had done something objectionable. “It’s still a painful subject to me. Edward did die in France, in 1917. He was about your age. It came close to breaking my heart.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “I spoke too abruptly. It was rude of me.”

Her hand grasped mine. She was strong, I could tell. Before, her grip had been restrained. Now, it almost hurt.

I must have winced—or made a sound of distress—because, immediately, the grip of her hand relaxed. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” she asked in concern.

“You’re strong,” was my deflected answer.

“I was disturbed,” she told me. “It won’t happen again.”

It won’t, because I doubt I’ll be coming here again, came the immediate thought. Too many discomforting distractions (not a bad combination). She was beautiful, all right. That was one of the distractions. Kiss me discreetly? Would discreetly be enough for a healthy (healing wound aside) eighteen-year-old male whose physical experience in France had amounted to nothing other than occasional solo gratifications?

At any rate, with that (unaware of my decision), Magda gave me a conducted tour of the house. I have already indicated what I saw of the main room. In improved lamplight, I saw them all more clearly, notably the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with bound leather volumes; black leather, as I said. Window-covering drapes in scarlet linen, a pair of red-upholstered antique chairs on each side of the fireplace, the sofa (or whatever it was called back then), odd-looking objects (d’art?) across the fireplace mantel. The rest was nothing special to my eye, except, of course, the portrait of Magda’s son, hanging over the fireplace mantel, framed, I could now see, in what appeared to be decorated gold. I had an instant impression (precursor to my Arthur Black conceits) perhaps that Mr. Brean’s vanishing gold had, somehow, been magically whisked to Magda’s house and converted to a picture frame. I dismissed the notion, irritated at myself. Foolish idea.

The tour was conducted on; nothing special. A voluminous kitchen; I’ll describe later. A library. I got the impression that it was, for some reason, off-limits to visitors. A bathroom with the obvious equipment: a commode plus a sink and bathtub, the tub sitting on what appeared to be four pterodactyl claws. The room smelled very sweet; again, for obvious reasons, I assumed. A far cry from the trench smell. You could slice that. A study—more floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, black leather bound, of course, a most roomy desk and antique chair.

“Nothing special,” I said? Until we reached the bedroom, Magda’s bedroom. Dimly lit; she made no move to light the candles—two of them, one hanging overhead, one on a table to the left of the bed.

The bed. That was special, reader. In the faintness of visibility, it looked, to me, like the brothel of a queen—or empress. Though I doubt queens or empresses converted their sleeping quarters into brothels. (I’m not positive.)

How to describe the bed? First of all, it had a canopy of silk plush. Next, the bedcover looked to be the same material, its surface embroidered with arcane symbols I could not make out and was hesitant to ask about. Finally—I mention it last—the bed surface was immense enough to sleep at least three hefty figures, assuming that they ever slept on such evocative acreage.

Let me add that the carpeting in the room—what I could see of it—was nineteenth-century gros point, Magda later told me; I was hardly an expert on English carpeting. In a corner of the room was a red-upholstered chair, next to it, a six-sided table. On which sat a crystal bottle half filled with some dark red liquid, several crystal glasses, and a small pile of books, bound in you know what by now. I must admit that I did not catch sight of all these things at the time. I saw them later.

“So?” said Magda.

“Yes?” was all I could think of in response.

“You like my house?” she asked.

“Yes, I do.” I managed to pretend.

“And this room?” Her tone was definitely suggestive, conclusion jumped.

I swallowed. Tried, anyway. My throat was bone dry. “Exotic,” I answered. It came out as a throat-clogged mutter.

“What did you say?” she asked.

I cleared my throat, trying—hard—to think of a better word. I couldn’t. “Exotic,” I repeated. This time audibly.

“Good,” she said. “That was Edward’s notion.”

Edward’s notion? I didn’t—or didn’t care to—understand.

“He was very artistic.” Magda explained, “He decorated much of the house. Come.” She moved to the bed and sat down, patting the mattress.

Brainless hesitation on my part. I was a standard-model teenage male. I should have jumped (or something) at the chance. I didn’t, though. Did my subconscious (or superconscious) pick up something that alerted me? No idea. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. For some reason, I didn’t dare. I know it sounds dumb, but it’s true.

“Oh, Alex, please,” she said. She sounded genuinely hurt. “You’re still afraid? I’m old enough to be your mother. I’m not about to ravish you. Or hurt you in any way. I just want you to see how comfortable the mattress is.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Not sure what I was sorry for.

“Well, never mind.” She stood. “You’ll want to go.”

Oh, God, I thought. I’ve really offended her this time. “I’m sorry,” I said again. Uncertain, it came out flat as a board.

She took my right arm with a gentle grasp. (A workable combination? No.) “I’ll take you to the door.”

By then, I felt really stricken with guilt. She’d been so cordial. Who was I—?

The thought evaporated with her next words; they made me feel even worse. “I was going to offer you some tea and cakes,” she said, “but I know you’d prefer to leave.”

Words tangled in my brain. My apology, Magda, I’ve been thoughtless. Please forgive me. Even worst of all—I’d love to try the mattress! Thank God the jumble of abject apologies stifled that one. I still felt lousy but remained mute (blessedly so) as she led me to the front door and released my arm. “It’s been lovely meeting you,” she said. It sounded less. “Come again when you feel safe about it,” she finished. She kissed me lightly on the cheek. “There—was that discreet enough?” she said. With that, she closed the door on me.

I trudged back to the main path, immersed in gloom. What had I done? I kept remonstrating myself. Stupid idiot. Just because she patted the damn bed? I knew it was more than that but ignored the more. I knew something had prevented me from staying but had no idea what that something was. I felt uncomfortable moving through the silent woods. Go ahead, I thought irrationally. Rustle all you want, who cares?

Reaching the main path, I turned toward my cottage. If my way had been blocked by a quartet of leering wee folk, I’d have angrily booted them in the ass and told them to get lost. Fortunately, nothing blocked my way and I walked, unimpeded, to my cottage.