Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, is a real person.
He is a former supervisor of mine, turned character in three of the BryonySeries books, turned author for his own BryonySeries books, where he also features himself as a character.
But during the holidays, Ed Calkins moonlights as Santa Claus.
So he also worked that part of his life into his first novel Ruthless.
The except below is our Christmas gift to you, from us.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER
8: THE NAUGHTY LIST
I have no idea what I’m doing in a Santa suit before a
single file line of small girls flanked by brownies about sixty deep, but I
know the game. Next to me are two unsmiling “elves” that look identical to male
brownies except they are wearing green instead of brown. It’s a wooden chair
and just a chair, not a throne or the like, which tells me I’m not the Steward
of Tara here, nor do I recognize any of the human girls or brownies.
The chair is situated on a hill, and
just a hill in Ireland, not the sacred double mounds of Tara, though I’d guess
the location to be not far. Also, I feel I’m in the past relative to my own
natural life, hardly much of a guess. Rarely and with much apprehension do I
venture into the future.
Where are all the humans? This is a telling clue. If it were early in
Ireland’s history, tribes would be scouting out for enemies to raid, taking
crops, coins, and slaves or defending against the same. Later, castles and heaps
of human folk would dot the hilly landscape. Still later, abbeys and churches
would join the development. Beyond that, when Tara lost its function, tourists would
gawk at the ancient sight of the making of kings.
No. Unless some other evil was at play, this must be the time when
humans abandon this place of mystical power; leaving this scared site to the
sidhe, in which they no longer believe. I feel for the sidhe, but I know the
weakness that disbelief can breed. Self-doubt is strongest when one is doubted.
“Ho Ho Ho, what do you want for Christmas number 40?’”
The girl next in line reluctantly crawls on my lap. The brownie parent
gives me a subtle thumbs up, indicating that the child has been good. Everyone
must be baffled that I know her “name” as 40, but it’s hardly difficult.
Someone other than a brownie arranged them in numeric order. Most brownies
can’t count beyond three without using fingers.
The child tells me her deepest wish in a low voice.
“A
doll!” I repeat, loud enough for the brownie dad to hear. It will fall on him
to make it happen even though he wouldn’t understand why. Brownie children
don’t use toys in their play, but these brownies seem to understand that human
children will need extra care. But why Christmas? Surely if that holiday were
known in these parts, it would have to be a later time in history.
Unless the girls are from a later time.
Emboldened, the child describes what kind of doll she wants. I repeat
loudly what she says, adding the required “ho ho hos” to every laugh. Number
forty departs from my lap, leaving scant evidence of why I’m here.
Number 41 is less shy, but I can’t help wondering why all blonde girls
in the same age group seemed to be the only humans. Brownies are known to steal
babies from human mothers. When they take an infant, they raise it as their own
child and then marry the child when it comes of age to other brownie families,
thus intermixing with human stock. But brownies would have stolen both genders.
Is it my prejudice that I suspect cluricahns or leprechauns? Leprechauns lacked
females, and cluricahns were always looking for dubious profit. Why only blond two-year-old
girls? Leprechauns wanted lovers, not daughters, and cluricahns would seek to
cut the losses of feeding a girl until she’s ready for sale. Only brownies
raised humans, then interbred with them when they came of age. Why would they
care if a child were non-blonde or male?
Forty-one got a thumbs up and a doll without interrupting my thoughts.
Not so with the next one.
A
thumbs down might have told the story, but these brownie parents put both
thumbs down and tongues out sounding raspberries. The girl heard her
introduction but placed her hands on her hips, displaying that she wasn’t about
to forget to negotiate.
“Oh, I’m afraid there will be no toy for you, 42. Maybe next year if you
behave better.”
“Good. I don’t want a toy. I want a boy,” she told me with remarkably
sophisticated vocabulary for a two-year-old.
I
looked to the brownie parents for contents, but they seemed as lost as I was. Number
42 seemed to find an opening and metaphorical bayonet lunged out.
“He has to be strong, handsome, brave, smart, and he has to do what I
say.”
“Ho Ho Ho,” I tried to make that a convincing chuckle. “You want a
husband?”
Some of the male brownies laughed.
The little girl made a face.
“Not a husband,” the
little girl insisted. “I already have a husband, and he’s very rich.”
She pointed to a person
off to the side and alone, but close enough to pay attention to “Santa Claus”
receiving children. His unhappy face, and his expression, seemed very familiar
to me. You know how it is when you meet someone you know well, but the meeting is
out of context. They’re somewhere they shouldn’t be, dressed as they shouldn’t
dress. This someone wore the fine Lincoln green suit and hat of a leprechaun.
I studied him, racking my
incomplete memory to place him in my natural life where I’m sure he belonged.
The little girl scowled at the attention I was giving him since she and I were
in the middle of fixing a price.
“He has to be the same
age as I am,” she demanded loud enough to pull my glance back to her.
I tried to be stern.
“Little girl, I can’t
give you a brother. I can’t give you anything. You haven’t been good.”
“I don’t want a brother,
and the reason you can’t give me anything is because you’re not really Santa
Claus. You’re just a fat human man dressed like Santa Claus.”
Wow! This could be a problem.
One child doubts out loud, and you spend the rest of your visit defending your
assumed identity. I quickly looked at the faces of the other girls. Not one was
buying her conspiracy theories. I could guess the girl had a reputation for
being a liar.
I was about to dismiss
her, but she jumped on my lap, gave me a hug, and whispered in my ear. Would
she have done that if she’d known my true nature? Because her neck was
temptingly close to my hidden fangs.
The truth, however, was
quite different. The girl was too young to tempt my lust for blood, nor was her
neck so close to my fangs. My true position was contrary to the way I presented
it. For me, it was kind of like driving a car in the States where the driver
seat, road, and right of way is left where it should be right; yet, one learns
to safely ignore the wrongfulness in order to finish the paper route. And while
I learned to drive in the States and never drove anywhere else, the wrongness
of it showed itself and never left me.
“See, if you can give me
a boy,” she whispered. “Then you would really be Santa, and I would make
everyone believe in you because I would tell them that you’re not. If everyone
believes you’re Santa, then you would be Santa.”
She pulled back to study
my reaction to her sales pitch. I was shocked.
“Do you lie a lot, 42?” I
asked without whispering.
“I always tell the truth,”
she told me coyly.
It was my turn to whisper,
and her turn to be shocked.
“Not me,” I whispered
into her head. “I always tell a lie every time I speak, even now.”
The girl was smart enough
to play with that. If I always lied, then I just told the truth, which means I
didn’t lie, so I lied.
The brownies must have
assumed I was successfully admonishing her. Her defiance fell from her face as
she thought through my words. Then she came up with an answer, which she
whispered back to me.
“I think you lie
sometimes but other times tell the truth. You were lying when you said you
always lie. You were also lying when you said you were Santa, but I can fix
that if I get my boy.”
My face was in her ear
before she could study my reaction. Something the girl said clinked on the time-appropriate
memory (or TAM), which made me believe this girl was the key to my running this
place instead of being a guess.
“I’m not Santa,” I
informed her. “You can be Santa. I want to stay fat and give orders. I want
everyone to believe what I tell them and be afraid of me because I’m ruthless.”
The bartering continued
for another five minutes, Neither of us ever spoke outside of the other’s ear. She
refined her terms in what this boy must prove. At first, she demanded the cliché
of rescuing of a princess by slaying a dragon, with, of course, her as the
princess. I didn’t like the dragon idea as it would mean bringing one in.
Instead, I suggested he slay a ruthless dictator, since I knew where to find
one. But I almost lost her when I reported that the boy wouldn’t be ready for
slaying dictators until both he and she were adults. So I had to promise her
that she could start seeing this boy after Christmas.
For her part, she agreed
to stop being a brat on the day after Christmas and the next day and the next
day and so forth - until the boy came to rescue her. Beyond that, well…
“Now this is what to say
to everyone if ‘they’ ever ask you if I was the really the Steward of Tara, and
that all of the sidhe were just figments of my imagination,” I instructed her.
“Tell them you can’t answer that. Because if you say I wasn’t, you’d be lying,
and you promised not to lie. If you say I was, you’d be telling a secret, and
you promised to keep that secret.”
Number 42 slid off my
lap. She still had five days to be a brat and was ready to make the most of it.
The change in her would shock the brownies and plant the seed of doubt about
them really existing.
Finally, all fifty girls
had their say with Santa. I stayed in my chair while the last brownie parents
ushered the girls away.
“Fat human can go!” a
brownie told me sternly. “Give back suit first!”
I wasn’t a guest. I was a
prisoner if I wasn’t being taken for a slave.
“Not just yet,” I
answered with as much confidence as I could muster. “I have to talk with the
leprechaun first…”
“Why you not give suit
now?” he demanded.
“Because I get very bored
if I’m not nicely dressed. People tend to disappear when I’m bored.”
I walked past him with
supreme confidence. One bluff seemed to work. Would I be so lucky with the
leprechaun?
“I don’t like my wife
sitting on your lap!” he told me.
“And good day to you,
Eircheard. May the wind be at your back.”
“Knives at my back, I
tell you. I talked to your master this morning.”
“John Simons…I mean,
‘Simotes?’”
“I don’t like my wife
sitting on your lap.”
“We’ll talk about her
later. I think first order of business should be the project we’re both going
to be working on.”
Eircheard was annoyed.
“The oak wood changeling!”
he exclaimed. “It will not work! My finest model can fool a mother for years,
so she doesn’t realize that her baby has been stolen. My latest model can learn
to walk but stops at talking. Your vampire master wants an exceptional son to
grow into a great man. If that’s the job specifications, you’re going to have
to make it happen.”
Interesting.
“Why can this oak wood
changeling unit manage walking but can’t learn to speak?”
“What part of “oak wood” are
you not understanding? A changeling is only as smart as the oak it’s from. Oak
is a smart wood. It can do what an animal can, which I think is bloody amazing,
but it can’t think like a person. Now, you can put a brownie inside the oak
wood unit and get some speech for as long as the brownie can stand the boredom.
But a brownie doesn’t act like a human boy. You’re knowing that first-hand.
Lucky for you, Mr. Simons doesn’t like the type that believes in brownies. He thinks
this whole realm is a product of your demented imagination. Even so, this won’t
make an exceptional boy unless it’s OK with the father to see his son doing his
algebra homework on his fingers and toes. Anyway, the latest oak wood unit
takes tremendous power. Why, no human mother has the mammies to make enough
milk to feed the machine.”
“But it can breastfeed?”
I asked, showing my hopes rise.
“Wrong question, lad. Ask
if it can stop breastfeeding. The answer’s almost ‘no.’”
“Almost?”
“Almost no!” he insisted,
yet pride bubbled from his annoyance.
I tried to process all of
this, while the leprechaun kept talking.
“Now, this Simons guy
doesn’t think much of you, but he’s acting like you’re some kind of wizard that
can make a machine think and act like a boy….well, he better be right for your
sake. I won’t be happy if I go through all the trouble of making the unit and don’t
get paid. And I’ll tell you another thing. Simons thinks that he can only come
to this realm because you’re letting him. It only follows that if my leprechaun
colleagues want a land that is vampire-free, all that’s required is a stake
through your undead heart. You’re all by yourself and you don’t know our
number. Best remember that when we get to are second order of business.”
Disgusted, I sighed.
“Artificial intelligence.”
“What?”
It was like almost any
programing job I ever undertook. They never seem to correctly guess what is
possible, and they hold you to their misguided standards. John knew I could
program a computer, and he knew I majored in psychology, so naturally he
thought I could develop AI that could replace a growing child’s mind and excel.
No team of the most brilliant software developers and psychologists could do
that, but John knew they were trying. Why does every client assume that you can
move mountains and still think you’re a bumbling idiot? Fortunately, I never
had a client who completely understood what he wanted.
“I can’t teach your unit
how to act like a boy,” I told Eircheard, who looked deflated and relieved at
the same time. “But I can write software to teach a brownie how to act like a
boy.”
“Well, you better be
ready to pay a brownie enough to work 24/7 for the rest of his life because
it’s not coming out of my pay. I’ll do my part, but don’t blame me if the whole
thing doesn’t take. Can we get to the second order of business?”
I was afraid to ask,
seeing that I only knew of two orders of business.
“We want you to sign this
contract,” he stated confidently. “It’s an offer you can’t refuse.”
From out of his green
coat jacket came a contract-looking stack of papers. It puzzled me why a
leprechaun would reveal what I long suspected. Until the church brought its
Latin alphabet, Gaelic had no written form. What language then would be on the
paper? I would have hoped for Latin but expected ancient Greek. I was
disappointed. The document was in modern English
Reading through it and looking
for an offer, I found only threats. I was to promise to introduce no male
humans into these parts. The bulk of the document was what would happen to me
if I chose not to comply by either not signing or breaking the “contract.”
It was a chess match
ambush, an attack for which I had not prepared. I’d need to find a solution
over the board with time issues on the clock. I knew signing that contract was
a confession of weakness, but I saw little advantage to add to my trouble a
conflict with leprechauns. Furthermore, I was dressed in a ridiculous fashion,
as if to say, “nothing important here, just a crazy old man all by himself who’s
so vulnerable that a troop of brownies forced him into playing a mythical deity.”
Then I found an idea. I
looked into his eyes as sternly as I could.
“You just made the
naughty list, Eircheard. No present for you this Christmas!”
To that he said nothing;
almost as if he didn’t hear me. I needed to buy more time to think of a
response while appearing unrushed and knowing. Act natural. Say something
crazy.
“We are a triumvirate,
Simons, you and I.’
“Yes, much like the first,”
Eircheard replied, nodding. “We are an alliance of three powers, but in the
end, there was only one emperor. Power always seeks more power. No one is
willing to play second. Which of the three are you?”
“I think Simons is
Crassus.” I pointed out.
The leprechaun looked
like he wanted to disagree, but he nodded his concession.
“Yes,” Eircheard agreed.
“The man is flawed. He compels you, but he is unable to control himself. He
will take himself out of power without either of us having to oppose him. That
leave two pairs, oh Steward of Tara, Caesar and Pompey, You and I.”
Did he just call me, “Steward
of Tara?” Maybe I’ve been here before. Maybe he knows what the brownies have
yet to learn. Or was it John Simons that told him what I would become?
“Maybe this is not like
the first triumvirate, and you and I will stay allied.”
“Has that ever happened
before?”
“No,” I admitted. “You
can be Caesar if you want. Remember the Ides of Match. You can defeat me later,
but I’ll not be signing the document you gave me.”
“Do you think that’s
wise? You are all alone right now. I have the leprechauns behind me, and you
don’t know our number.”
“Not more than sixty,” I
told him, realizing that the girls were to be the wives/slaves of the
leprechauns when they came of age. Less than sixty wives would bring conflict
to the already fading race.
“Sixty against one,” he
challenged, though sounding less confident. One vampire can be a formidable
foe. Still, he had a point. Why wasn’t I scared? It wasn’t because of an excess
of confidence or even courage. Neither ever counted high in my short order of
personal virtues.
Then I thought of the
IRA. I was raised Catholic. That might be enough for the IRA to defend me, even
though “now” was centuries before its existence, and I never had any affection
for its methods. I couldn’t lie, but I still could bluff. Fortunately, my
dyslexic mis-speech did me one better.
“Ever heard of the IVA?”
I heard myself say.
He just gave me a puzzled
look. I said nothing, which might have seemed like a pause for dramatic effect,
but I was trying to figure out what that could mean.
“Irish Vampires
Association,” I informed him the first moment I had it. “Don’t feel ignorant if
you’ve never heard of it, because it’s the most secretive organization on the
planet. The only reason I’m allowed to mention it is because I’m its
spokesperson.”
“And you’re a member of
this…”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,”
I corrected quickly. “I can’t divulge or even speculate about who’s a member
and who’s not. The truth is, I don’t even know myself…except of course, myself.
I could be talking to the president of the IVA. I wouldn’t know. I don’t go
talking about it. I only speak of it to people who need to know. Well, right
now that’s you. If you’re a member, then you’re the only one who knows that,
and you need to know that I’m the spokesman because you don’t want to go threatening
one of your IVA brothers. If you’re not a member, then you need to know it’s
not wise to threaten someone who is. That’s all.”
Eircheard snorted. “You
well know I’m not a vampire. Why would I be a member?”
“You don’t have to think
you’re a vampire to be in the IVA. You just have to believe you’re Irish. If
you’re not a member but want to be one, I can tell you how.”
“I’ll decline…”
“No, no!’ I interrupted
as if I hadn’t heard of his refusal. “Don’t tell me if you’re going to be a
member. It will compromise our secrecy. It’s quite simple. You can join at
home. First, go to a room where you are completely alone and initiate yourself
by pledging to do whatever you think the IVA wants you to do…which doesn’t
include threatening your IVA brother.”
“And you expect me to
believe…”
“No. Why would I? An
association that doesn’t know of its own members is crazy on the face of it.
How could I know such exists? I’m just a crazy old vampire and all alone by the
looks of it. I probably made the whole thing up. I don’t know if I did or not.
Let’s not speak of it.”
I didn’t lie. Telling the
truth to someone who thinks you’re a liar is the best way to deceive.
“So if you’re not going
to sign this contract, maybe we can make another kind of deal and at least
agree not to kill each other before the deliverables are exchanged.”
“That’s setting the bar
pretty low,” I told him. “What I want is a harder sell.”
“Which is?”
“I want to buy your
wife.”
Eircheard’s face turned
red with rage. At least he took me seriously.
“You don’t go selling a
wife!” he finally articulated.
“Why not, you got her and
the rest of the babies like any slaves being sold off a raider’s ship, except
the brownies didn’t need a ship, did they? Did they promise to raise them
before your De Danann friend and you take delivery? If you did anything else,
it might feel like marrying your daughters.”
“Because a wife is a
slave that you can never sell.” His grammar slipped, and his accent became
thicker. “The point is, our wives are the De Danann’s future. They will be
brownie-raised and De Danann-educated. When they are of age, we will leave this
bubble in time and transport to the future, buy up the land in some small,
forgotten village, and repopulate the race with our younger wives. Look, this
has all been worked out with your master, John Simons. All that’s to be done is
the handshake, and I sealed the deal.”
“What makes you think the
girls wouldn’t run off with some younger, taller men of the time and area, like
your De Danann maidens did with the Milesians?”
I was guessing, but I
seemed to have hit the bullseye.
“Milesians?” he snorted.
“They were never more than a handful in number. You’re all Fir Bolg to us.
Besides, many of us are quite tall.”
“The Milesians, or Celts
as they are better known, never worried about their few numbers. Yet if you say
‘Celt’ in modern times, people assume you’re talk about the Irish. As to your
second point about being tall, do you know what we Fir Bolg call a tall
leprechaun?”
“No.”
“Shorty!”
The leprechaun was not
amused. Still red-faced, he pulled a wallet sized photo of 42 from his plaid
vest pocket. The picture showed a girl barely eighteen and completely naked.
John must have gone into some future to get this picture. I blushed, trying to
look away; the nudity of the child I had just made a deal with was…well,
inappropriate. I do admit she was very attractive.
“So you don’t want her
for yourself,” Eircheard accused. “You’re intending to sell her as a
prostitute.”
“Completely untrue, I
intend to sell her as a sex slave.”
“How is that better?”
“It makes me ruthless.
Don’t play innocent with me, Eircheard. You’re buying sex slaves
that you hope to keep placated by making sure they never lay eyes on a young
man. If they never know better, they’ll never want better. How many sunrises
have you seen? Fifty years’ worth?”
“Forty eight.”
“So when you get to be
sixty-two, you’ll be ready to collect your eighteen-year-old bride!”
“What’s wrong with that?”
I wasn’t going to get
anywhere this way. The trade I needed was a hard sell. The important thing
about selling sex slaves is you have to be the biggest scoundrel in the room.
No one should feel ashamed in front of his human trafficker.
“Nothing’s wrong.
Congratulations. I wish I had an eighteen-year-old sex slave.”
“Wife!”
His correction was harsh.
“Yes, wife,” I agreed.
“But I’ve got a better deal for you. I’ll trade you your wife for a different
female, one much more suited to your needs and tastes perhaps.”
“I’d need to see a
picture first.”
I did have a picture. I
took it almost eight years ago for that brief period in her life when she
became a professional dominatrix. Yes, I was going to sell my best friend,
Trudy. How ruthless is that?
The picture was of a late
forty something heavyset woman in a leather catsuit holding a riding crop. She
looked stern, yet somehow friendly. I wondered what a leprechaun that thinks a
wife is a slave you cannot sell, thinks of a woman who dresses so.
“I’m sure this woman
doesn’t have many years of childbirth left.” Eircheard scoffed.
“I don’t know she has
any.”
I really didn’t. She
confided in me so many things. Would menopause be any different? One expects a
childless woman to change over early.
“She hardly looks like
much. You’ve seen my wife. Why would I even consider?”
“What would you rather
have, a sex symbol or sex goddess? All those gold coins that the Milesians
never found…I’m sure they paid for many a beauty, but did they ever grant you a
sex goddess? Goddesses can be stolen, conquered, or even sold, but they cannot
be rented.”
Eircheard was not
embarrassed.
“Well, this one looks
like none of those are possible,” he mused. “But what can she offer that would
make a man forget a brownie-raised, leprechaun-educated, princess like this one?”
He held the photo up to my face to make a point.
“She’s a poet.”
Eircheard knitted his eyebrows.
He put his face very close to mine, so much so that I could smell the pipe on
his breath.
“A real poet? You would
traffic a poet? Why would you do that? Why would I go along? It doesn’t sound
to me like a fair trade.”
“It’s not. I’ll need more
than your wife.”
“All the easier to walk
away, I think.” Eircheard started to do just that.
“I’m not even ready to
fix a price,” I yelled to his back. “How do you know you really want her if
you’ve never had her? I’m not talking about renting her out, mind you.”
Eircheard stopped in his
tracks, though he didn’t turn around.
“Free samples?”
“Seven years with her.
You need to go to the year that she took this picture. If you’re game, I’ll
take my answer tomorrow.”
Now he turned. “Well…which
is it, tomorrow or seven years from now?”
“That depends on if you
buy her or not. If you’re game, I’ll send you to her seven years and a day
back, from my perspective, which will be the future for you, but 21 years
before the time you were going to settle with your child bride. After seven
years in that future, I’ll meet up with you in that future, which is one day
away for me. If we don’t have a deal, I’ll send you back here tomorrow one day
older than you are right now. If we do have a deal, you can continue your life
with her in the future as if nothing happened. You wouldn’t remember that
anything did happen unless you write yourself a note. I recommend you don’t do
that as forgetting will be the best for you if you don’t take this deal.”
“You’re expecting I’ll
fall in love with this lassie. You know full well, I’ll be risking the deep
time disease if I go to the future and come back again the day.”
“I am, and I do.”
“And you expect I’ll pay
everything I have for her, more like you’ll kidnap me and you expecting all me
gold for my freedom! We used to pay for your whores, we did, till they be
getting the notion of taken all we could pay with!”
Eircheard’s face was red.
Steam seemed to blow out through his ears. Leprechaun lore has not endeared
their race to the taller folk. Eircheard turned away. I blew it. Shouting again
at his back, I said the only thing I could hope would save the deal.
“She might kidnap you,
but you won’t want to escape. It wouldn’t be your gold she’d be after.”
Eircheard sighed loudly
before he turned to me. Anger had left him. There was no profit in resentment.
“With me,” he said, shame
in his face. “It has to be a certain way.”
“Really,” I tried to
sound uninterested. Actually, I was uninterested. “I wouldn’t worry about
introducing your fetishes to her. Worry instead about being introduced to hers.
Your child bride will learn to forgive your advanced age, find wisdom in all
you say, and tolerate anything that will make you happy. Trudy will demand your
manliness, find folly in every foolish thing you say, and the only way to shut
her up will be to toss her on a lover’s bed and pump her into carnal bliss.”
He tried to seem
uninterested, but the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable for any man that ever
aspired to be the last man on earth.
“I’d love to try your
deal, lad. But too many of us would rather have our wives and lives in this
realm; in the time where the Fir Bolg forgot about us and the holy sight of
Tara. They don’t care about replenishing our numbers. If I go now, they’ll
never go into the future.”
“I’ll make sure that they
do.” I told him.
For a long time, he just
looked back at me, measuring. I tried to look impressive, dressed in a Santa
suit made for weather much colder than the mild Irish winter.
“Are you right-handed,
lad?”
I nodded that I was,
wondering where this was going.
“All the things you’re
saying,” he decided. “They’ll have to be in writing with the provision that I
get both women if you try to cheat me.”
“You draw up the papers
and meet me back here in one hour. I’ll sign the papers then. Be sure to BRING everything
you can carry. I’ll give you some money as reality doesn’t accept maple leaves,
and gold would just get you robbed. It might take some time before you can bed
her, but you should find her behind a bar on a day when your clothes will fit
the time.”
“St. Patrick’s Day,” It
was more of an exasperated statement. How could he know about a day honoring a
man not born yet?
“New Year’s Eve,” I
corrected. “December 31, 1999. Many Irish Americans will be wearing green. Your
accent should adapt to the place, so your English will be without an Irish
accent.”
“And what do I say to this
lassie to let her know she’s supposed to pretend to fall in love with me?”
“Tell her she’s supposed
to fall in love with you, or the money you’re paying for the drink has been
wasted. After that, tell her that you think you might be able to have sex with
her without paying for it, which is something you’re not used to. Don’t be too
discouraged if you get your face slapped. She’ll remember you, and you’ve set
the bar pretty low for improving her opinion as you start frequenting the place
where she serves. Smoke your pipe when you’re with her and show her she can’t
drink you under the table.”
“You tall folks never can.”
He started to walk away, then turned back. “Be the way, don’t be having one of
your pixies watching out when I come for the signing, like you did, expecting
that I wouldn’t notice her.”
He had already scattered,
but I traced where he pointed and saw her, which made my heart flutter.
For a human to spot a
pixie is a very lucky thing, but approaching one is risky. If you’re
disrespectful or dismissive, you might become the subject of a pixie’s natural
love for mischief. There is safety in keeping distance. However, if a human of
the opposite gender appeals to such a pixie, that pixie is likely to flirt.
Pixies are quite attractive to other species and are known to offer much: games
of seduction, romance, and adventure. Should a pixie wink at you, wink back,
but don’t approach it. Let the winged fairy come to you. You might blow a kiss
to encourage this. A pixie might only bless your garden or farm and then fly
away. But if it does approach you, expect kisses. But don’t be too enthusiastic
or aggressive about them. Better to match kiss for kiss. And don’t be too
chatty. Pixies detest nervous verbal advances. These creatures are quite
promiscuous, and they regard human intimacy as too jealous and presumptuous.
But if touching begins, it may lead to sexual adventure with a duration that
matches a pixie’s attention-span. The adventure may surpass a single night of
passion but never long enough to produce an engagement ring.
She was not a pixie,
however. Easy it was to confuse her, as they both have wings, but not all
winged creatures are pixies. This was a little angel, the very one that is now both
my lover and wife. If you be male and lay eyes on her, she may grace you with a
wink, or even call you a “hon” or “cute.” If the sight of you pleases her, she
may even offer marriage in the same way her lover offers such. But do not seek
a kiss from her nor a touch. In fact, keep your GRUBBY HANDS OFF her. She is
mine as I am hers. No other love shall be made by any other pair.
There were brownies
occupying the ground between me and her. As I marched past them, I heard, “Fat
human man can keep the suit.” No doubt 42 had been doing her work, and my power
seemed less meager to the troupe of them.
The kiss was hard, deep,
and needful. She did not need to tell me that she had come from her future
beyond her afterlife to guard me as I played “Santa.” She always did, listening
carefully to my interactions with the children that she might advise me latter
on how to keep magic in the conversation. Now that she was past her lifetime, I
saw plainly what I always suspected. Her angel wings were proof. I was careful
not to harm them since the next kiss was a dance of passion, with her wings
flapping expertly to keep her toes just beyond touching the grass.
“We can talk later,” she
whispered in my ear. “For your comfort, let’s find a field where we can make love
undisturbed.”
I needed no
encouragement.
We flew to such a field
and discarded our clothes in a heap. During our lovemaking, I discovered that
my concern about damaging her wings was unfounded as her wings only existed in
the physical realm and only when she needed to use them. To enchant me, she put
me on my back while using those wings for carnal motion. Afterward, she
promised other tricks not possible while both of us lived, should another visit
into space/time be allowed for her.
For a long time, we lay
naked, me on my back and her wrapped around me with her head on my chest. With
our eyes closed, anyone would have thought us sleeping, but we conversed with
our thoughts as she and I could both hear each other.
Please stake me,” I
pleaded. That I might go with you.
A cloud passed over her
thoughts.
I had always assumed that
she had stolen my soul, so when I became a vampire, I had no soul left to suck
out. This was the reason, I’d assumed, that John Simons failed to really compel
me. Now, I was compelled to complete John-Peter because I loved the lad, although
I knew better then to let John know either of these two facts. But then
my lover, Nalla, this little angel, informed me something that she never told
me in life.
Souls can’t be stolen the
way artifacts are,” she said. Rather, a soul can be “wired” to do the stealers
bidding by influence; like tempting a remote-controlled car to drive forward.
Your soul was already wired before I met you. Some mortal creature had placed
the wiring within my soul but had yet to use it. So when I stole your soul, I merely
added my own remote-control to the existing one, which kept you down the
straight and narrow with my influence. No doubt the other soul stealer was a
vampire, but until that vampire made its move by compelling you, we’ll never
know which vampire needs staking to free you of its influence so that you could
perform the tasks required of you in my undead state, by the hosts of the
divine.
This doesn’t make sense
to me,” I objected. Common sense says that my best chance to escape damnation
is to be staked before I do evil.
Damnation is not on the
table, she insisted. Forgiveness can be granted for any acts you committed
without free will. Rather, your actions could greatly reduce a need for
forgiveness if you fulfill your part as an undead agent.
It was our first
disagreement from beyond the grave. I was dead; why should I have more to do?
Surely mortal men, be they undead or otherwise, had no jurisdiction in the
dominion of the divine. Why not drive the stake and be done?
But this conversation showed
me that the power had shifted in our relationship. Whereas my thinking would
have carried the day in life, I now had to comply, as she had already passed to
the beyond. Furthermore, I had to consider the life of John-Peter. If I were to
die a real death before he was created, he would never be. The lad deserved
better.
Besides, my nature makes
it impossible to take a life unless I’m willing to join with the fallen, she
added.
Though unhappy, I had to
agree. I disbelieved her, though, about damnation being off the table. I was on
heaven’s naughty list. Maybe she did not want me to worry, but if I failed to
find the soul stealer and stake him or her, I would surely earn the damnation I
believe I was destined to receive ever since I was a child.
“What is this place?” I
spoke aloud, wishing to change the conversation. “And why are there no humans
around, save the little girls from another time?”
“I’m sure you can guess.
This place is a bubble on the surface of space/time. Though the sidhe exist
independently, your imagination created this place as the leprechauns would
have had it, as a further favor to them. They owe you.” Then she added a
warning: “Don’t let them take advantage.”
“What else did I do for
them?”
“You have to find out for
yourself. All I can tell you is that you have to be ruthless, or you’ll never
achieve what you’re meant to achieve. If you fail to be ruthless, you may find
yourself to be the king of all vampires.”
“Well, what if I ruthlessly
asked you what I did for them? Because I don’t remember. They know that, and
they’re not going to tell me.”
“If I told you, you’d
never believe me. Find out!”
“I don’t know how to find
out. Neither do I know how to create John-Peter. I know I did it, but I also
know that if I don’t do it now, John-Peter will never walk the earth. I can’t
see this ending well. It’s a matter of time before I fail at both.”
“You can fail until you
quit. You always say you’re going to quit, but you never do.”
That was true. I thought
for a while, making the “to-do” list in my mind.
First, I have to build a
boy, which involves writing the program for artificial intelligence that grows
to become a prodigy, which is beyond anything I’ve ever done, and I’ve got to
do that while being the village idiot that everyone expects me to be.
Second, I have to find
the vampire that owns my soul and kill it.
Third, I have to master
this realm so I can honor my promise to that little girl, setting up a conspiracy
to kill me, by setting up a conspiracy to have myself slain, using, of course,
the help of her prince.
Fourth, I’m to find out
what I did for the leprechauns and extract the proper payment. In the meantime,
I have to run a newspaper delivery service up to the standards of a division
manager who’s trying to get rid of me.
Whatever will I do will
all my free time?
“You missed one,” Nalla
said. “Five: you must keep your humanity the best you can.”
She had been reading my
thoughts.
“I know you’re a vampire,”
she continued, “and you’ll have to feed. I know your tastes, and I don’t expect
you’ll just feed on animals, but you must not take any lives. You’ve always
wanted to be feared. Try to remember when you’re drinking the blood of some
young hottie, that a corpse isn’t going to remember much, and if you make
another vampire… well, you’ll know the mess you’ve made. Another thing: I don’t
mind you having other wives, but if you take another lover, I’ll find it hard
to forgive you. So keep it in your pants. I’ll try to comfort you as often as I
can, but you’ve got to stop coming to me during my natural life. I’m a widow
now, and I’ve got to grieve and live out the rest of my life. I won’t be able
to do that if you lay beside me when I sleep.”
“You get to move on,” I
whined. “But I have to stay faithful even though the rule is: till death do we
part?”
“Sucks to be you.”
But, of course, it never
did suck. She always tolerated my perverted imagination the same way I
tolerated hers.
“If it makes it easier, I
do marry a lover again, many years after you stop your undead incursions into
our bedroom. Don’t feel sorry for me.”
“That depends on the
marriage.”
“A Latin busboy near
retirement age…short, heavy, a cutie who could barely speak English. I fell in
love with him. He wanted a green card.”
“That’s terrible!”
“No. In a few years, he
was so in love with me, he couldn’t see straight. But that was during life, Edward.
My afterlife lover is you.”
I was still lying naked
with a smile on my face when she disappeared. I lay there wishing I could stay
here for the rest of my undead life…
That’s when a troupe of
brownies fell on me.
OK, they didn’t really
fall on me…more like surrounded me in a menacing way… or that’s what it seemed,
seeing I was naked, and they seemed very unhappy.
“Why Steward sleep?” one
shouted at me. “Humans sleep at night! Steward has work to do.”.
“The Steward of Tara
sleeps anytime he likes,” I told them, trying to look formidable in my aged birthday
suit. “Why do brownies disturb the Steward?”
That was the task that I
forgot to list, yet somehow it was already finished. Did the lies of a little
girl raise me from slave to commander in just a few hours?
“Glorna makes big trouble
again,” he answered respectfully.
Now, I wish I were the
slave.
Glorna, a wood sprite, was
always making problems by making his own rules and confronting everyone who
abided by ancient protocol instead of Glorna logic. This time, he had insulted
some banshee who was singing too loudly and out of tune, according Glorna’s
estimation. Feelings were frayed and needed smoothing out. I promised the
banshee, whose voice was just fine, that I would chastise the wood sprite with
a limerick he would never forget.
After the Glorna mess, I
headed to the portal where Eircheard and I were to meet. I was several hours
late, but Eircheard was even later than that. When he came, he was dragging
several sacks filled with items he was hoping would have value in this unknown
future that he was embarking on. I gave him all the money I could afford, which
was hardly enough, but Eircheard was a capable business leprechaun who knew how
to make a profit.
I gave him a map of
Detroit, some tips on prices in modern times, and advice on the best places to
sell his wares, which for the moment, were pawn shops. He wasn’t interested. He
wanted to know the quickest way to bed Trudy, which was of course to be patient
and not too persistent. I reminded him several times he had nothing to lose if
he didn’t wind up keeping her. Instead, he’d be standing in this exact spot
tomorrow with no memory of what happened or where he’d been, and he’d only know
that he was one day older and there was no deal.
That’s when he produced
his contract.
I read it as carefully as
my dyslexia allowed, which means, it took a very long time, and I learned nothing.
I did expect it to be longer and worded cagily. He huffed several times as I
went through it.
“Are you sure you’re
ready to sign this, lad? It’s a half a page long, and I’m not ready to die of
old age? What kind of trap were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” I
answered truthfully as I signed the document. “I expected to learn something I
didn’t already know.”
“I learned something,” He
gloated as he pocketed the document. “It helps to know I have dealings with a
liar. You should be putting yourself on your own naughty list.”
I looked at him quizzically.
“You told me you were
right-handed,” He smirked and spoke to me for the last time in his thick Irish
accent. “But you signed my papers with your left.”
He was through the portal
before I could say it. Just as well, I thought. It’s good to have some lines on
the board that your opponent doesn’t know about.
I really am right-handed.
.PNG)
