Dreams and Shadows

chapter THIRTY-EIGHT

THE FAIRY SABBATH

It was Friday, and thus Rhiamon the Gwyllion was amidst a herd of her goats, combing their beards until each was silky and straight, just as she did every Friday for as long as anyone could remember. Though it was still early in the day, she had combed quite a few goats already, humming enthusiastically to herself, blissfully engrossed in her chore. Rhiamon looked old and tired, an aged crone kneeling before an endless sea of coarse, matted fur, her tangled gray-white hair and crooked spine causing her to blend in with her goatly surroundings.

She smelled them coming before she could see them—redcaps gave off the most distasteful odor, worse even than the goats—and where the redcaps were, Knocks was rarely far behind.

“How dare you disturb me on the Sabbath,” she called out into the herd, knowing full well who they were. Her voice resonated, deep and sonorous, drowning out even the ceaseless bleating of her flock—if only for a moment.

“Sorry to disturb, mistress crone,” said Reinhardt, appearing seemingly from nowhere. “But the young master desires a word with you.” The redcap had one leg forward, attempting an awkward curtsy as if he were the emissary of some distant, foppish nation. There he teetered, fumbling with his hands, mangling the proper etiquette.

Rhiamon looked up at him disdainfully. “Why you insist upon running around with that absurd little creature rather than tearing him apart and soaking your caps in his blood is beyond me.” She spat upon the ground.

“My lady,” nodded Reinhardt, still attempting his ridiculous half bow, refusing to make eye contact. He was at once both offended and afraid, but dared not speak up; Rhiamon was a dangerous sorceress and could hex all sorts of mischief upon him with but a thought. It was in his best interests to remain polite, even when insulted—a fact Rhiamon was more than willing to exploit.

She waved him closer. “Come.”

The remaining redcaps shuffled out from behind a gathering of unkempt, anxious goats. Knocks stepped forward from the gang, holding his bloody cap in his hand, showing more restraint, every bit as scared as Reinhardt. “Mistress crone?”

“Yes, young changeling?” She looked up at him, for a moment showing no emotion at all. Then she puzzled over his wounds, suddenly realizing that these fools who stood before her wanted no mere favor. Often fairies from the court came to her asking for potions or a spell—always wanting the most trivial of help—they were in love with a mortal or needed to chase off some spirit that had taken up residence in their part of the woods. This was different; she could tell by the way they stood, the way bruises crept slowly across their grim countenances. “What have you done?” she asked. “What is it you boys have gotten yourselves into?”

“Trouble, mistress,” said Knocks.

The crone smiled, her wrinkles forming deep chasms of age. She set her comb down beside her. The wrinkles upon her forehead surrounding her knobby, gnarled horns began to smooth out. Rhiamon so loved misfortune that the very thought of it made her feel and become younger. Her eyes brightened and she instantly shed five years. “Go on,” she prodded.

“It is the boy Ewan. He still lives.”

“Of course he does,” she said. “He has powerful friends.”

“It was just him,” said Knocks bitterly.

“Who did this to all of you?” She looked at them incredulously.

“Yes, mistress.” The redcaps nodded in unison behind Knocks.

“And how did he accomplish such a feat?”

“He stole the cap off Karl’s head and put it on.”

The crone smiled broader still. Her hair began to untangle, turning from a frazzled white mess into a fine, silky, distinguished gray. The wrinkles around her eyes gave way to loose bags of skin—not yet smooth, but well on their way. “So he wears the cap?”

“Yes,” said Knocks.

She cackled, alarming the goats nearest her who pattered in place.

“This isn’t funny,” said Knocks, his voice dripping with restrained anger.

“Oh, but were that true. If you knew what it is you’ve actually done, you too would be laughing.”

“What have we done?” asked one of the redcaps.

“Perhaps it is best that you not know,” she said with a wicked simper, the years now cascading off her a decade at a time. “Perhaps you should enjoy the pleasant surprise.” Her hair shaded from gray to blond, gaining a lustrous vibrancy that shone more brightly with each passing moment; it now toppled upon her shoulders rather than nesting atop them. Her wrinkles were all but gone now, her skin becoming smooth and delicate, her eyes radiant and sparkling. Sagging flesh grew taut, firm with supple muscle. Rhiamon looked no older than thirty-five now, a very beautiful woman revealed beneath the sixty-five or so years that she’d lost—albeit one adorned with a single knobby goat horn.

“I don’t understand,” said Knocks. “How could not knowing be in our best interests?”

“Because you might try to stop the inevitable,” she answered. “And that should not happen.”

“Well, what do we do?” asked Reinhardt.

The crone, now a twenty-five-year-old knockout with curves that could stop a city bus, narrowed her eyes. “You do exactly what I tell you—step by step.” She retrieved her comb from the ground and returned to working out the knots in the beard of the nearest goat.

“There are three things you must do,” she said. “First you must separate the wizard from his djinn. He must not be able to simply wish his problems away this time.” She reached into a bag beside her, drawing from it an ornate glass bottle, intricately carved, with fine gold inlay and words in ancient Persian: May you rest undisturbed for one and one thousand years. “Without the djinn, he is but a wizard. And a wizard can be bested by using his own magic and arrogance against him.

“Next you must separate the wizard from his friend. If he has done this to you alone, then I can only imagine what the two of them will be able to manage together. For this, I must teach you to use the one gift given you that you do not yet fully understand—a technique as old as the Devil himself. We must bind you together nice and tight with the hatred that makes you whole. Finally, you must use the boy’s own weakness against him.”

“What is that, mistress crone?” asked Knocks.

“That depends; how did you find him before?”

“The girl. The Leanan Sidhe Mallaidh; the two are in love.”

Rhiamon smiled so wide that her face itself began to shed and shrink. Her curves tightened and vanished, she dwindled in size, and her eyes sat large and luminous upon her fifteen-year-old face, filled with unholy joy. “Then you must use his love for the girl. No man has ever known love that he would not foolishly walk into death for.”

“How do we do that?”

“You’re a changeling. You’ll figure it out.” She continued to smile, effervescent and now all of eight years old. “Come, if this is to work I have many things to teach you. But first, we must comb out the beard of each and every goat. Hurry, sunrise approaches.”