Ghost Light

In the center of the circle, a woman stood over a fire singing in a strange tongue.  Béchuille was not what I expected.  The woman looked more like a goddess than a druid.  The Tuatha Dé was tall and slender as a supermodel, with long, blond hair that fell in waves around her body.  She wore a golden torque around her neck and red robes that brushed the tops of her sandaled feet.

At our approach, the woman ceased her chanting and turned to face us.  A scarlet tanager settled on her shoulder and began to sing in her ear.

“Welcome, Sir Torn and Princess Ivy,” she said.

“My Lady,” Torn said, bowing.  “We come seeking knowledge.”

“I know that which you seek,” Béchuille said.  “Now show me the key.”

Torn turned to me with a smug grin.

“Yes, princess,” he said.  “You do have the key, don’t you?”

Damn, it was a bit late to be asking that.  I glared at Torn and struggled to keep my hands at my waist.  I wanted to strangle the cat sidhe and toss him into the cauldron that bubbled on the fire.

“Princess?” Béchuille asked.

Torn had played me well.  I didn’t want to admit to having a key to Faerie, but now I had no choice.  If I claimed I didn’t own a key, I wouldn’t learn the location of the door.  This trip would have been for nothing.

I lifted my chin and, with stiff movements, unzipped a jacket pocket and retrieved the jewelry box.  My nostrils flared, seething, as I opened the box and lifted the key for the druid’s inspection.  I ignored Torn’s arrogant laugh.

“Good, now let me prepare the bones,” she said.

Béchuille lifted her hand to the bird on her shoulder.  I thought she was going to stroke its feathers or pet its head.  I gasped as she grabbed the bird roughly in both hands and deftly broke its neck.  I’d bought into the Hollywood image of druids as peaceful, animal loving, hippie types who commune with nature.  I chided myself for being a fool.

The druid dropped the bird to the ground at her feet and poured a ladle of steaming liquid from the cauldron over its broken body.  My eyes widened as the bird was quickly reduced to bone.  Whatever was in that cauldron had eaten away all sign of feathers and flesh.  So much for Mag Mell being an idyllic paradise; just try telling that to the bird.

“Béchuille’s cauldron contains waters taken from the Fountain of Knowledge in Tír Tairngire,” Torn whispered.

A bit late for him to be informing me of that now.  I inched away from the fire, putting Torn between me and the cauldron.

While I changed my position, Béchuille stuffed the bird’s bones into a leather pouch.  She tied the pouch and shook it, making the bones rattle inside.  I bit the inside of my cheek and tried not to think about the pretty bird that had perched on the Tuatha Dé’s shoulder mere seconds ago.

The druid stepped to an area beside the cauldron that was void of moss and flowers and used a wooden staff to draw a circle on the bare ground.  She tossed her head back, chanting, arms lifted to the sky.  Her green eyes rolled back in her head and I wondered idly what would happen if the woman fell into her own cauldron.  Torn had claimed there was no such thing as death in Mag Mell, but I’d already witnessed the bird’s demise.

Béchuille tossed the bones onto the ground with a clatter and I snapped my eyes back to circle.  A low moan escaped the druid’s lips and Torn sidled up to me, chomping on his apple.

“I love this part,” he said.

A breeze stirred the woman’s golden hair and her face paled to a sickly hue.  She pointed a shaking finger at me and a chill ran up my spine to creep into my scalp.

“The door you seek is one that hides,” she said.  “You must await midsummer tides.  Upon the summer solstice when the moon doth wane, the wisp princess shall sit upon her throne again.”

“Riddles?” I muttered.  I should have known this wouldn’t be easy.

“Shhh,” Torn said.

“Muster your allies and gather your power,” she said.  “You must reach Tech Duinn’s steps by the witching hour.”

“Oh shit,” Torn said.

“Shhh,” I said.

“Brandish the key and do not lose heart,” she said.  “On solstice night the ocean shall part.  Go to Martin’s Point at final light of day, and the stones of Donner Isle will lead the way.  Not by sea, but by land.  You all will take your stand.  To the house of Donn you must carry, king Will-o’-the-Wisp’s key to Faerie.  Inside Donn’s hearth bend your knee, close your eyes and turn the key.”

The druid lowered her head, shoulders shaking, and scratched her foot across the edge of the circle.  Once the circle was broken, the bones pulled together and began to sprout flesh and feathers once again.  I gaped at the bird as it chirped and took wing.

Maybe death truly couldn’t touch this place.  After witnessing the bird’s apparent death and rebirth, I didn’t find that very reassuring.  I was pretty sure that having your neck broken and the flesh boiled from your bones was unpleasant whether death followed or not.

“So I have to bring the key to Martin’s Point at dusk on the summer solstice?” I asked.