Ghost Light

I let my eyes adjust to the low light provided by two small lamps.  One of the lamps had a flickering bulb that made our shadows dance along the narthex walls.  It didn’t take long for my half-fae eyes to focus.  As soon as I was sure I wouldn’t bang my shin on a stone bench or crack my head on a pillar, I hurried out of the lobby area and into the nave.  As I suspected, the church was empty of parishioners.  The only creature in sight was a sleeping unicorn.

I sprinted down the center aisle toward the altar where Galliel was resting.  Even in sleep, the unicorn gave off an unearthly light.  I liked to think it was the shining purity of his heart, but don’t tell anyone I said that.  Hanging around Galliel always turns me into a sap.  Who knew my kryptonite would have doe eyes and gave wet nosed snuffles?

Galliel cracked an eye open and chuffed happily as I knelt beside him.  It always amazed me to see his white, marble body come to life.  Galliel was beautiful, from his long flowing tail to the tip of the spiral horn on his head.  He was also the closest thing I had to a pet.

The unicorn raised his regal head, sniffed, and licked my face.  I didn’t even flinch.  Galliel was the one creature I wasn’t afraid to touch.

“Glad to see you too, big guy,” I said.

I smiled and handed him a sugar cube from my pocket.  All fae like sweets and Galliel was no exception.  He snarfed up the treat and chewed it noisily.

“He’ll get fat, you keep feeding him like that,” Father Michael said.

Father Michael harrumphed as he stood, appearing from where he’d been bent over behind a podium.  The priest carried a stack of books and pamphlets, his glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose.

“Can unicorns become overweight?” Ceff asked.  “I’ve never heard of an obese unicorn before.”

“An intriguing notion,” Father Michael said.  “It begs the question; do other fae gain weight while in horse form?  I would rather like to know.  I read a treatise once on kelpie anatomy, but the scribe’s penmanship left much to be desired.  I’m sure you could assist with…”

Mab’s bones, they had already started.  It always began with an innocent question or remark from Ceff, whom Michael was entranced with, and then the mad priest would be off on a tirade of wild hypotheses and theories.  Normally, I would ignore their conversation and sneak off with Galliel, but not tonight.

The lives of dozens of fae children were at stake.

“A study of fae anatomy will have to wait,” I said.  I sighed, standing and walking away from Galliel.  “This isn’t a social call.  We’re on a case.”

“It is true, Father,” Ceff said.  “We are trying to locate over thirty missing children.”

The priest fumbled with the books and pamphlets, setting them on a nearby pew.  His hands fluttered to his head where they ran like spiders through thinning hair.

“What can I do to assist in your search?” he asked.  “You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t think I could be of help.”

It was true.  The purpose of my visit was information.  I placed a hand on my stomach, wishing I could push away the guilt beginning to settle there.  Asking others for help didn’t make me feel like much of a hero, but it was part of the job.  Stomping through the case on my own would only get myself, or those kids, killed.

“Yes,” I said, nodding.  “I need to know everything you have on mass abductions of fae children and anything on a musician who can attract both people and rats with his music.”

“Sounds like an enchanted instrument,” Father Michael said.  He tilted his head to the side, tapping his chin.  “Do you know what kind of instrument this musician plays?”

“Woodwind,” I said.  “A flute or panpipe, I think.”

Father Michael took off in a flurry of long arms and legs, his robes flapping out behind him like wings.  Ceff and I followed close on his heels.  The priest led us to his study where he searched the shelves.

He pulled down two large books, one a collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and set them on his desk, pushing aside a pile of yellowed scrolls.  Pages fluttered and the priest bobbed his head as he found what he was looking for.

“See here, and here,” he said, pointing.

The first book featured a painting of a man in traditional fool’s raiment playing a flute while children danced along behind him.  The second book showed an engraving of dancing skeletons alongside a medieval painting of robed, religious figures dancing hand in hand with the dead.

Cold fingers ran along my spine.  Was there a connection between the dancing children and the dancing dead?

“The Danse Macabre,” Ceff whispered.

“Yes,” Father Michael said, head bobbing up and down.  “The Danse Macabre, or Dance of Death, is a common motif found in many medieval churches and works of art.  Some, like this engraving here, depict the dancing dead.  While more often the works will show a circle of alternating live and dead dancers.”

“What does that have to do with this musician?” I asked.

“That, my dear, is The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” Father Michael said.