Talismans and Trouble
The question “are you crazy?” was one that Vivian had asked on numerous occasions, most often of his friend Lonán. Usually, it happened when he got a Skype message at three in the morning—those would go from “Hey Vivi, are you still up?” to “So I had this idea—” before Vivian could even confirm that he was awake.
Lonán was a writer, so Vivian was accustomed to hearing everything from “between the names Corbin, Cormac and Corbinian, which do you like?” to “if you were going to keep a prisoner in a cathedral, where would you hide him?” with no context whatsoever. In fact, he’d answered both of those questions in the past few weeks—and reminded Lonán that the FBI would be at his door if a body was found in a cathedral within the year.
The little bit of craziness was worth it—Lonán was a very good writer, and Vivian was usually more than happy to assist him. With Vivian as his accomplice, Lonán had successfully kidnapped four prominent religious figures, founded eight countries, started six wars, and assassinated no fewer than two monarchs—and that was only in the past year. Both of them had run into something of a creative block these past couple of weeks, and he’d expected more crazy questions as Lonán overcame that block.
But this was a whole new kind of crazy. This wasn’t “can you whip up an illustration for this elaborate scene?” crazy. This wasn’t even “I need a place to hide a body in a cathedral” crazy. This was “you need to have your head examined” crazy. Vivian rubbed his temples.
Lonán was a writer, so Vivian was accustomed to hearing everything from “between the names Corbin, Cormac and Corbinian, which do you like?” to “if you were going to keep a prisoner in a cathedral, where would you hide him?” with no context whatsoever. In fact, he’d answered both of those questions in the past few weeks—and reminded Lonán that the FBI would be at his door if a body was found in a cathedral within the year.
The little bit of craziness was worth it—Lonán was a very good writer, and Vivian was usually more than happy to assist him. With Vivian as his accomplice, Lonán had successfully kidnapped four prominent religious figures, founded eight countries, started six wars, and assassinated no fewer than two monarchs—and that was only in the past year. Both of them had run into something of a creative block these past couple of weeks, and he’d expected more crazy questions as Lonán overcame that block.
But this was a whole new kind of crazy. This wasn’t “can you whip up an illustration for this elaborate scene?” crazy. This wasn’t even “I need a place to hide a body in a cathedral” crazy. This was “you need to have your head examined” crazy. Vivian rubbed his temples.
“All right, run that by me again, slowly.”
Lonán repeated what he’d said—as he had been for the past five minutes, but slowly and deliberately. Vivian hadn’t misheard.
“When you’re saying that characters are coming to life, you don’t mean you’re feeling inspired? You’re sure?”
“Very sure!” Lonán assured him from the other end of the phone, his voice cracking slightly. “Very, very sure!”
“And you realize how insane you sound?”
“Yes, you’ve made it quite clear that you think I’m off my rocker. I’ve eaten, I've taken my insulin, my blood sugar isn’t out of whack, I’m not hallucinating—Vivi, this is happening.”
“All right, all right, I’ll be right over.”
Lonán repeated what he’d said—as he had been for the past five minutes, but slowly and deliberately. Vivian hadn’t misheard.
“When you’re saying that characters are coming to life, you don’t mean you’re feeling inspired? You’re sure?”
“Very sure!” Lonán assured him from the other end of the phone, his voice cracking slightly. “Very, very sure!”
“And you realize how insane you sound?”
“Yes, you’ve made it quite clear that you think I’m off my rocker. I’ve eaten, I've taken my insulin, my blood sugar isn’t out of whack, I’m not hallucinating—Vivi, this is happening.”
“All right, all right, I’ll be right over.”
Lonán closed his phone and took a deep breath. Then he turned to survey his living room.
What made the scene odd was not the eclectic group of people. That was quite ordinary—his living room always looked like this before a renaissance faire, or a video game convention, or the like. The fact that there was a vampire sitting on his sofa, an assassin looking curiously at his shelf of art books, and a fortuneteller hugging a crystal ball in the middle of the floor did not strike him as the least bit unusual. The group of people in costumes that was normally in his living room before their events was mixed-up enough to make even the most ragtag RPG party look like a logical assortment. The strange part was that none of these people were part of the usual group, nor did they seem to realize that they were in costume.
Oh, gods, Vivian, please hurry. I need someone else to see this.
He took a moment to pull his hair back before he addressed the people in his living room. He thought better that way—even though, from a practical standpoint, it did little to keep his hair out of his face.
“Um—hello,” he began, not sure exactly what to say. “Are you all…quite comfortable?” A small plant, using its leaves to flap around the room, chirped excitedly and circled Lonán’s head three times before going to investigate his potted bamboo plant.
“Oh, yes,” said the fortuneteller, staring dreamily out the window. “I can see the moon from here.” His voice matched the look on his face—a little vague, almost made you wonder if he was all there.
Lonán blinked, but decided to let the odd statement go in hopes that the conversation would move on. He might as well try to be a good host. “Can I—er—get you anything to drink?”
“Are you certain that’s a wise invitation?” the vampire asked, raising her eyebrows and clearly not even trying to conceal the hint of amusement in her voice.
“It seemed proper,” Lonán said, suddenly very aware of his pulse. He willed himself to not anxiously rub his neck. Her black lips curled into a smile, which did nothing to put him at ease—in fact, it did quite the opposite. Maybe I should go get a scarf… “Would you…mind introducing yourselves?” Not that he didn’t recognize all of them, but he needed to hear it.
The assassin looked up from the book of fantasy landscapes he was holding. “Would you?”
“My name’s Lonán,” he said. “I—well, I’m a writer.”
“Maeve Desrosiers,” said the vampire. “Queen of the country of Spades.”
“Kevice,” said the assassin, putting the book back on the shelf. “But there’s no need to go into what I do.”
“My name is Lucien,” said the fortuneteller, rocking back and forth with his crystal ball and looking thoughtfully up at Lonán. “And you’re the Writer, aren’t you?”
“I’m a writer, yeah,” he said.
“No,” Lucien said. “Not a writer, the Writer.” When he realized that everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate, he tilted his head. “You wrote us.”
All was silent for a long moment, and Lonán was acutely aware of the eyes on him. Maeve and Kevice were weighing this new piece of information, he was sure—what it meant to them, how it could be used for or against them… ultimately assessing if was he a threat. Such close scrutiny made him uneasy—so he jumped more than usual when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Fervently hoping that his unexpected guests didn’t think it was a dangerous magical device, he hastily pulled it out. It was all he could do not to sigh with relief when he saw a message from Vivian—saying he had arrived, please come open the door.
“Hold that thought,” he said, dashing down the stairs to let Vivian in—and thanking the gods his friend had had the good sense to not ring the doorbell. Maeve and Kevice were both tightly-wound—he was fairly certain that a loud and abrupt sounding of the Westminster chimes would do nothing to put them at ease.
Hellos were said hastily as Lonán led the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time with Vivian not far behind. The newcomer wasn’t quite prepared for what he saw when he rounded the corner into the living room.
“Do you believe me now?” Lonán asked, trying to keep the “I told you so” tone out of his voice.
Vivian couldn’t quite say it was strangers that he saw in the living room. He knew each of them—and quite well at that. Sitting on the sofa was Maeve, the Queen of Spades—with her black lips and red eyes, and a black gown exactly as he always drew it. Holding a symbolism dictionary and studying him closely was a young man in a red leather cloak, with an-above average number of daggers and belts—Kevice Wolfswift, a skilled assassin-for-hire. Zooming around the room was a small plant of an unknown species, flapping its leaves and chirping away as it explored. Sitting on the floor was an androgynous figure, with long blond hair and a scar that reached from the right side of his jaw across to his left temple—Lucien Delacroix, who told fortunes at a circus. He had a childlike look to him, just the way Vivian had been so careful to draw him—and now those childlike blue eyes were on Vivian, almost like the fortuneteller was staring through him.
“If he is the Writer…then you must be the Illustrator,” Lucien said at length.
“Yeah,” Vivian said after a moment, nodding. “That’s right, I illustrate the things Lonán writes.”
“Fascinating,” Maeve said, rising from the sofa and approaching Lonán. He tried not to freeze as her hands—and those long fingernails he’d written about, why did he give her those?—got dangerously close to his neck, pushing his collar back until she found…
…the cord of his necklace?
What made the scene odd was not the eclectic group of people. That was quite ordinary—his living room always looked like this before a renaissance faire, or a video game convention, or the like. The fact that there was a vampire sitting on his sofa, an assassin looking curiously at his shelf of art books, and a fortuneteller hugging a crystal ball in the middle of the floor did not strike him as the least bit unusual. The group of people in costumes that was normally in his living room before their events was mixed-up enough to make even the most ragtag RPG party look like a logical assortment. The strange part was that none of these people were part of the usual group, nor did they seem to realize that they were in costume.
Oh, gods, Vivian, please hurry. I need someone else to see this.
He took a moment to pull his hair back before he addressed the people in his living room. He thought better that way—even though, from a practical standpoint, it did little to keep his hair out of his face.
“Um—hello,” he began, not sure exactly what to say. “Are you all…quite comfortable?” A small plant, using its leaves to flap around the room, chirped excitedly and circled Lonán’s head three times before going to investigate his potted bamboo plant.
“Oh, yes,” said the fortuneteller, staring dreamily out the window. “I can see the moon from here.” His voice matched the look on his face—a little vague, almost made you wonder if he was all there.
Lonán blinked, but decided to let the odd statement go in hopes that the conversation would move on. He might as well try to be a good host. “Can I—er—get you anything to drink?”
“Are you certain that’s a wise invitation?” the vampire asked, raising her eyebrows and clearly not even trying to conceal the hint of amusement in her voice.
“It seemed proper,” Lonán said, suddenly very aware of his pulse. He willed himself to not anxiously rub his neck. Her black lips curled into a smile, which did nothing to put him at ease—in fact, it did quite the opposite. Maybe I should go get a scarf… “Would you…mind introducing yourselves?” Not that he didn’t recognize all of them, but he needed to hear it.
The assassin looked up from the book of fantasy landscapes he was holding. “Would you?”
“My name’s Lonán,” he said. “I—well, I’m a writer.”
“Maeve Desrosiers,” said the vampire. “Queen of the country of Spades.”
“Kevice,” said the assassin, putting the book back on the shelf. “But there’s no need to go into what I do.”
“My name is Lucien,” said the fortuneteller, rocking back and forth with his crystal ball and looking thoughtfully up at Lonán. “And you’re the Writer, aren’t you?”
“I’m a writer, yeah,” he said.
“No,” Lucien said. “Not a writer, the Writer.” When he realized that everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate, he tilted his head. “You wrote us.”
All was silent for a long moment, and Lonán was acutely aware of the eyes on him. Maeve and Kevice were weighing this new piece of information, he was sure—what it meant to them, how it could be used for or against them… ultimately assessing if was he a threat. Such close scrutiny made him uneasy—so he jumped more than usual when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Fervently hoping that his unexpected guests didn’t think it was a dangerous magical device, he hastily pulled it out. It was all he could do not to sigh with relief when he saw a message from Vivian—saying he had arrived, please come open the door.
“Hold that thought,” he said, dashing down the stairs to let Vivian in—and thanking the gods his friend had had the good sense to not ring the doorbell. Maeve and Kevice were both tightly-wound—he was fairly certain that a loud and abrupt sounding of the Westminster chimes would do nothing to put them at ease.
Hellos were said hastily as Lonán led the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time with Vivian not far behind. The newcomer wasn’t quite prepared for what he saw when he rounded the corner into the living room.
“Do you believe me now?” Lonán asked, trying to keep the “I told you so” tone out of his voice.
Vivian couldn’t quite say it was strangers that he saw in the living room. He knew each of them—and quite well at that. Sitting on the sofa was Maeve, the Queen of Spades—with her black lips and red eyes, and a black gown exactly as he always drew it. Holding a symbolism dictionary and studying him closely was a young man in a red leather cloak, with an-above average number of daggers and belts—Kevice Wolfswift, a skilled assassin-for-hire. Zooming around the room was a small plant of an unknown species, flapping its leaves and chirping away as it explored. Sitting on the floor was an androgynous figure, with long blond hair and a scar that reached from the right side of his jaw across to his left temple—Lucien Delacroix, who told fortunes at a circus. He had a childlike look to him, just the way Vivian had been so careful to draw him—and now those childlike blue eyes were on Vivian, almost like the fortuneteller was staring through him.
“If he is the Writer…then you must be the Illustrator,” Lucien said at length.
“Yeah,” Vivian said after a moment, nodding. “That’s right, I illustrate the things Lonán writes.”
“Fascinating,” Maeve said, rising from the sofa and approaching Lonán. He tried not to freeze as her hands—and those long fingernails he’d written about, why did he give her those?—got dangerously close to his neck, pushing his collar back until she found…
…the cord of his necklace?
She pulled the pewter pendant from beneath his shirt, studying the interlocking loop pattern and flipping it over to examine the magic seal on the back. “You wear this, and yet claim no knowledge of how we came here?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“My writer’s talisman?” Lonán asked after a moment. “It’s just a piece of jewelry I got at a fair…they said it’s supposed to inspire writers, but who believes that, really?”
Maeve looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Convince me.”
“It’s the truth!” If you had told him yesterday that he’d soon be back-talking the Queen of Spades, he would probably have agreed with you—but he had not expected to do so literally. If she was just as he wrote her—and she seemed to be—then back-talking her was not the wisest of ideas.
Vivian nodded. “This isn’t really a world with magic, unlike where all of you come from. This situation is…really only heard of in fantasy books for middle-schoolers.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” said Kevice. “But the fact remains that we are here, and we weren’t before. So, Mr. We-Don’t-Have-Any-Magic, how do you explain that one?”
“He’s telling the truth,” Lucien piped up, staring into his crystal ball while absently petting the little flying plant. “At least, as far as he knows, he is.” All eyes turned to the fortuneteller.
“How do you figure?” Kevice asked.
“Because I see everything.” He held up the crystal ball. “Also, it will rain on Thursday.”
“Well, then, seer,” Maeve said, dropping the medallion back onto Lonán’s chest and turning to survey Lucien. “How do we get back in our stories? I have a country to run.”
“Places to go, people to kill,” agreed Kevice, smirking. “How are we going to do it?”
“We ought to find the source of the magic,” she said. “If we can do that, we can manipulate it.”
“Theoretically,” Lonán pointed out, feeling oddly like he was playing a very strange game of Dungeons and Dragons. “Whatever magic pulled you out of the stories might be different than the kind of magic you use.” Did I really just say that seriously?
Vivian looked at Lucien, who was still sitting on the floor and hugging his crystal ball. “Lucien, is that something you could do? Find the source of the magic?” The fortuneteller looked thoughtfully at the crystal ball, then scooted closer to the window without a word. He continued gazing at the moon, his orb levitating and slowly spinning in front of him.
“If he can’t, it’s possible that I can,” Maeve said, her eyes flickering back to Lonán—who once again found himself uncomfortably conscious of his pulse.
“Queenie—Queen Maeve,” he said, realizing his fond nickname for the character would not be appreciated. “Isn’t half of your magic based in blood?” It was a rhetorical question—he knew exactly how her magic worked. She was, mainly, a bard—music was her favored source of magic. But something like this—tracking an item, especially an item associated with a person—would probably require a different skill set, and that skill set involved a taste of blood. Just a drop would enable her to see a person’s memories…and she’d probably want his memories of purchasing the talisman. Not a thought he liked. He’d have to be careful about the abilities he gave his characters in the future…
“Oi, what about me?” Kevice pointed out before Maeve could answer. “Master in acquisitions of all kinds, I could find where this came from and work from there.”
“You could,” Vivian said. “But don’t forget, Kevice, that our world is very different than yours. You can’t just go to the local tavern and ask about the wizard who makes the talismans. The guy who made it is probably a hundred miles away.”
Kevice stared at Vivian for a moment. “Well, that throws a wrench in my plans. That’s a pretty sizeable distance.”
“There’s two of them,” Lucien said from the window, where he was staring at the moon through his orb.
“No, Lucien, that’s the crystal ball,” Lonán said gently. “There’s only one moon.”
“Of course there’s only one moon,” Lucien said, pouting. “There’s two magic sources.”
Maeve frowned. “That complicates matters significantly. Tell me what you perceive, seer.”
Lucien raised the crystal ball so it was in front of the moon from Maeve’s angle—then promptly brushed the chirping plant off the top of it, mumbling that there wasn’t supposed to be plants on the moon. The plant opted to perch on his head instead.
“There,” he said, pointing to one of the faint shadows. “That’s one. And here,” he pointed with the other hand, to a different, darker shadow. “Another.”
“So shadowy blobs are pulling us out of our worlds and keeping us here?” Kevice asked sarcastically. “I should have known! Silly me, it’s always those shadowy blobs.”
“My writer’s talisman?” Lonán asked after a moment. “It’s just a piece of jewelry I got at a fair…they said it’s supposed to inspire writers, but who believes that, really?”
Maeve looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Convince me.”
“It’s the truth!” If you had told him yesterday that he’d soon be back-talking the Queen of Spades, he would probably have agreed with you—but he had not expected to do so literally. If she was just as he wrote her—and she seemed to be—then back-talking her was not the wisest of ideas.
Vivian nodded. “This isn’t really a world with magic, unlike where all of you come from. This situation is…really only heard of in fantasy books for middle-schoolers.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” said Kevice. “But the fact remains that we are here, and we weren’t before. So, Mr. We-Don’t-Have-Any-Magic, how do you explain that one?”
“He’s telling the truth,” Lucien piped up, staring into his crystal ball while absently petting the little flying plant. “At least, as far as he knows, he is.” All eyes turned to the fortuneteller.
“How do you figure?” Kevice asked.
“Because I see everything.” He held up the crystal ball. “Also, it will rain on Thursday.”
“Well, then, seer,” Maeve said, dropping the medallion back onto Lonán’s chest and turning to survey Lucien. “How do we get back in our stories? I have a country to run.”
“Places to go, people to kill,” agreed Kevice, smirking. “How are we going to do it?”
“We ought to find the source of the magic,” she said. “If we can do that, we can manipulate it.”
“Theoretically,” Lonán pointed out, feeling oddly like he was playing a very strange game of Dungeons and Dragons. “Whatever magic pulled you out of the stories might be different than the kind of magic you use.” Did I really just say that seriously?
Vivian looked at Lucien, who was still sitting on the floor and hugging his crystal ball. “Lucien, is that something you could do? Find the source of the magic?” The fortuneteller looked thoughtfully at the crystal ball, then scooted closer to the window without a word. He continued gazing at the moon, his orb levitating and slowly spinning in front of him.
“If he can’t, it’s possible that I can,” Maeve said, her eyes flickering back to Lonán—who once again found himself uncomfortably conscious of his pulse.
“Queenie—Queen Maeve,” he said, realizing his fond nickname for the character would not be appreciated. “Isn’t half of your magic based in blood?” It was a rhetorical question—he knew exactly how her magic worked. She was, mainly, a bard—music was her favored source of magic. But something like this—tracking an item, especially an item associated with a person—would probably require a different skill set, and that skill set involved a taste of blood. Just a drop would enable her to see a person’s memories…and she’d probably want his memories of purchasing the talisman. Not a thought he liked. He’d have to be careful about the abilities he gave his characters in the future…
“Oi, what about me?” Kevice pointed out before Maeve could answer. “Master in acquisitions of all kinds, I could find where this came from and work from there.”
“You could,” Vivian said. “But don’t forget, Kevice, that our world is very different than yours. You can’t just go to the local tavern and ask about the wizard who makes the talismans. The guy who made it is probably a hundred miles away.”
Kevice stared at Vivian for a moment. “Well, that throws a wrench in my plans. That’s a pretty sizeable distance.”
“There’s two of them,” Lucien said from the window, where he was staring at the moon through his orb.
“No, Lucien, that’s the crystal ball,” Lonán said gently. “There’s only one moon.”
“Of course there’s only one moon,” Lucien said, pouting. “There’s two magic sources.”
Maeve frowned. “That complicates matters significantly. Tell me what you perceive, seer.”
Lucien raised the crystal ball so it was in front of the moon from Maeve’s angle—then promptly brushed the chirping plant off the top of it, mumbling that there wasn’t supposed to be plants on the moon. The plant opted to perch on his head instead.
“There,” he said, pointing to one of the faint shadows. “That’s one. And here,” he pointed with the other hand, to a different, darker shadow. “Another.”
“So shadowy blobs are pulling us out of our worlds and keeping us here?” Kevice asked sarcastically. “I should have known! Silly me, it’s always those shadowy blobs.”
“Things he isn’t directly familiar with are fuzzy in the crystal ball,” Lonán found himself explaining, once again floored by the fact that he was saying all of this perfectly seriously. “And magic sources are fuzzy to begin with. Honestly, I’m surprised it shows this much.”
“Does the darkness of the shadow relate to anything?” Vivian asked. Lucien rotated the orb several different directions, watching the shadows intently.
“Yes,” he said at length, tilting his head so he was looking at it sideways. “But it can mean different things. It might have to do with physical distance, or strength of the magic, or intent of the magic…”
“Doesn’t narrow it down much,” Kevice muttered.
“I’ll narrow it down,” Maeve said, pushing Lonán gently out of the way. “But I’ll need that talisman.”
“And this isn’t going to require anybody bleeding?” he clarified.
“Did I say that? I need your memories. They’ll be clearer than these shadows.”
“Great,” Lonán sighed, squeezing past Vivian to go get his lancet and silently vowing that he’d tidy up the living room when all this was over, so that there would be space to walk. “Glad it only takes a drop.”
Vivian winced. “I’m having sympathy pains for you already.”
The sting of the lancet was familiar—hardly worth mentioning, really—and Lonán held out his hand to Maeve. She skimmed the drop of blood off his fingertip with a nail and licked it, staring thoughtfully for a moment before closing her eyes.
“Your blood is sweet,” she said. “Too sweet. You should fix that.”
“My sincerest apologies,” he replied sardonically, putting a test strip in his glucose meter anyways. Well, would you look at that? She was right. He adjusted his insulin pump accordingly, and looked back at Lucien—who was now playing with the flying plant.
“Talisman,” Maeve said, holding out her hand. Somewhat reluctantly, Lonán removed the pendant and set it on her palm. His neck felt bare without it—he’d worn it every day for nearly four months now.
“So while she’s meditating on your blood or whatever she’s doing, why don’t you tell us about that necklace of yours?” Kevice suggested.
Lonán closed his eyes for a moment to think. The circumstances had been quite ordinary, the memory was not a particularly vivid one. “It was…in mid-October,” he said. “We were at the renaissance faire with a few friends…one of them saw a necklace in a shop she was interested in, so we looked around while she waffled over whether or not to get it.” He was about to look at the talisman as he spoke, like it might make the image in his mind’s eye clearer, but remembered that Maeve had it and settled for closing his eyes a bit tighter. “They had lots of talismans—talismans and puzzle rings are their thing—but this one caught my eye. It’s been years since I actually bought something at a renaissance faire, and I figured, why not?”
“Did you mention to anyone that you were an author?”
“I should think it obvious by the fact that I was buying a writer’s talisman,” Lonán said. “But yes, I did. The girl working the register asked.”
“Does she know you by name?”
“I don’t know!” Lonán rubbed his temples.
“Yes,” Lucien said, pausing in his play to look at Lonán. “She asked if you were Lonán O’Riain, and when your next book was coming out.”
“Oh, so you can see that, but all you can tell us about the magic is it’s from shadowy blobs?” Kevice asked.
“I imagine it’s easier to look into the past,” Vivian said. Lucien nodded.
“Much less cloudy.” He absently rolled the crystal ball around in the air. “What do you see, Queenie?”
“I see a literally sharp reprimand in your future if you call me “Queenie” again,” she answered, opening her eyes slowly and giving Lucien a cool stare. “But I do believe you’re on the right track. There’s a strong impression on this talisman, presumably from when she was fetching it from storage.” She looked at Lonán, clearly waiting for him to speak.
“Why are you looking at me like you think I’m hiding something? If I’ve ever seen her before or since, I’m not aware of it.”
“She’s very fond of you, boy. Are you blind?”
“Aww, you have a fangirl!” Vivian teased, grinning and giving Lonán a playful shove in the arm. Lonán shoved him back, making a face. “In all seriousness, is that relevant?”
“Seer, show me the magic sources,” Maeve commanded. Lucien floated the crystal ball over to her. One of the figures had taken on a more human form. “Yes, one of these could easily be her.”
“So is the clarity about the magic strength or what?” Kevice asked.
“If I were to guess, a combination of strength and intent,” she said. “She’s the more fully-formed figure, but also lighter in color and fainter in appearance. Whereas this other figure is darker and denser, though unidentifiable.”
“So we’re still at “shadowy blob” for the stronger magic,” Kevice sighed. “Okay, what do we know? We know it’s probably a human. A lot of help that is,” he grumbled. “I wish I could see what you saw.”
In response, Maeve removed a small leather-bound book from a strap on her belt and touched her forehead to an open page. She set the book on her lap, and everyone gathered around to see what she’d done.
On the page before them was a perfectly-rendered image of the shop at the renaissance faire—accurate even to the details on Lonán and Vivian’s costumes.
“What is that?” Kevice asked, looking impressed. “How did you do that?”
“It’s a magic book,” Vivian explained. “Imbued with the power to show her whatever is in her mind’s eye.”
“Is it as you imagined, Illustrator?” she asked. Vivian nodded.
“Better.”
“Here’s the shopkeeper,” Kevice asked, pointing at the girl behind the counter with the tip of one of his daggers.
“It looks like her,” Lucien said, holding up the crystal ball. “And look—he was there too.”
“Who?” everyone asked at once.
“Him,” Lucien said, pointing at the second figure in the orb. “He’s right there.” He pointed at the book. The plant imitated his gesture. Maeve plucked the plant off the page by what appeared to be its shoulders, and placed it on Lucien’s hand.
The person in question seemed quite out-of-place in the scene—mostly because he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt amidst all the people in costume, but even that could have been excused if not for the exceptionally cross look on his face.
“What’s his problem?” Kevice asked, voicing what they were all thinking.
Maeve looked at Lonán, and when she decided that look of confusion was going to remain until she explained, she sighed. “You bumped into him.”
“Did I?” he asked, surprised.
“You apologized, of course, but he wore that same sour look the rest of the time you were in the shop. I kept a close eye on him in your memories, thinking perhaps you had interrupted an attempt at thievery, but I saw nothing.”
“Some people are like that,” Vivian said. “I think I remember him. Shouted at me, too, for walking next to you. And, if I recall, he whined about it the whole time you were talking to the shopkeeper.”
Maeve nodded. “You remember correctly.”
“But how could he possibly be involved?” Lonán asked. “He clearly has no sense of fun whatsoever, why would he be capable of magic?”
“I don’t expect it’s a conscious choice,” she said. “How did Alice get into Wonderland?”
“She followed the White Rabbit, I think,” said Vivian.
“Accidentally,” Kevice said. “You’re saying this magic thing was accidental?”
“I see no other explanation.” Maeve shrugged. “If you do, I’d be most interested in hearing it.”
Lucien suddenly gasped and clutched his crystal ball tightly to his chest, wide-eyed. “I…I understand…” he said, staring at the page. No one spoke for a long moment.
“Care to share?” Kevice prompted.
Lucien was quiet, staring at Lonán. When he spoke, his voice had lost a bit of the dreaminess it previously had. “You must get us back into our stories, Writer,” he said. “Lest we fade from them forever.”
“Of course we’ll get you back in, Lucien,” Vivian said gently, reaching out to pat the distressed fortuneteller’s hand.
“No—you must hurry!”
“Child, what are you on about?” Maeve asked.
“If we’re gone too long from our stories…we’ll fade from them,” he whispered, staring in horror at the floor—as if this disappearance was playing out on the carpet.
All was quiet while this information sunk in. No one questioned how Lucien knew this—after all, he saw everything—but all faces grew serious, especially Lonán’s.
“If you fade from your stories…I won’t be able to tell them,” he said. “Your stories will…”
“Vanish,” Vivian finished. “But what does magic have to do with that?”
“One of the people near that talisman wished the Writer good luck, the other wished him evil luck,” Lucien said. Maeve nodded.
“She said she hoped the talisman would help him bring his stories to life…and this man must have wished that he fail.” She looked at Lonán. “Thus… your characters came to life, but in doing so, set up your stories to never be told. Since this is about our conspicuous absence from our stories, you must find some way to return us to them—though I doubt writing ‘they returned home and lived happily ever after’ on a scrap of paper will be enough.”
“What if you wrote about people who were missing us?” Kevice said at length. “I’m sure Ara’s wondering where I got to, and Queenie’s kingdom is probably missing her too. Someone to pull us back in, like someone pulled us out.”
“What did I say about calling me Queenie?” Maeve asked, giving Kevice a glare cold enough to freeze water. He grinned a grin that clearly read, “what are you going to do about it?”
“Someone to pull you back in, eh? Worth a shot,” Vivian said.
“What about me?” Lucien asked softly, looking suspiciously close to tears. “I do not have any strong ties.” The flying plant chirped sadly, its leaves drooping.
“Don’t worry, Lucien—we’ll get you home,” Lonán said, tying his ponytail a little tighter and reaching for his laptop, a determined gleam in his eye. “And you too, little plant. Do you have your tablet, Vivi?”
“Do I go anywhere without it?” he asked, grinning as he pulled it from his messenger bag and curled up on the sofa. “All right, ready when you are. Who first?”
In response, Lonán grabbed a small black bag from the cedar trunk that functioned as a coffee table. He took a die from this bag, rolled it, and said, “Maeve, who’s someone close to you? And now’s not the time for any of that ‘none of your business’ stuff you always give me. I need answers, Queenie. And my talisman.”
She sighed deeply and dropped the talisman into Lonán’s outstretched hand. “…Louie. His name is Louie.”
“What does he look like?” Vivian asked, picking up his stylus and starting to sketch.
Maeve went on to describe a kind-hearted man—tall, with dark hair, purple eyes, a strong jaw, and pointy teeth. For several minutes, the room was filled with the sound of clicking of keys and the tapping of a stylus, then the focus shifted to Kevice. He described a girl named Ara—a mischievous gypsy, with short black hair, a boyish build, and an eye for shiny things. The quiet settled in once again.
Finally, all eyes turned to Lucien and the plant, sitting on the floor and looking dejected. It would have been a humorous picture, if not for the tense atmosphere.
“You can’t think of anyone, Lu?” Kevice asked uneasily. Lucien shook his head. Lonán stared at the fortuneteller for a long moment, and all got the feeling he was looking through him more than at him—like Lucien himself often did. His fingers moved absently over his talisman.
“Don’t worry, Lucien. I’ve got this.”
Lonán had first encountered the notion of “writers’ unblock” in a book of magic-themed crafts, in a tutorial on making a quill pen—the “wizard” author said that the first time you wrote with such a pen, you might feel a strange tingling in your forearm—a sensation wizards called “writers’ unblock.” Sometimes, when the desire to write struck him particularly hard, he did feel that tingling—whether he was imagining it or not, he was never sure, but it was always a good sign. Vivian said he got the same thing with drawing—and good things always came of this “unblock”
It was exactly seventeen minutes and thirty-eight seconds until Lonán stopped writing. There was a short pause somewhere in the first six minutes, when he sent something to Vivian, but it had been only a few seconds. Two minutes and six seconds after Lonán finished typing, Vivian set down his stylus.
“All right, that’s that. What now?”
“What now indeed,” Lonán said, rubbing his eyes. “It sort of just…happened…last time.”
Vivian rubbed his wrist and looked down at Lucien and the plant, still sitting on the floor and looking as if Christmas had been cancelled. “Cheer up, you two, we’re not going to let you disappear,” he promised, patting Lucien on the shoulder.
“You promise?” he asked tearfully, still clutching his crystal ball like a lifeline. The plant chirped woefully. Vivian nodded and smiled.
“Promise.”
“Oi!” Kevice suddenly shouted. All eyes immediately followed his gaze and unsheathed dagger—both of which were trained on the space between Lonán and Vivian.
The figure was faint, at first—the sort of thing one might see out of the corner of their eye when alone in the house at night. But it grew more tangible, and within moments, a ghostly figure of a tall man with dark hair had appeared in the middle of the room. He bowed politely, extended his hand, and smiled—showing a set of very pointy teeth. Maeve smiled back, then looked at Lonán.
“Do not forget us, Writer,” she said. “For no one will know of a story never told.”
“I won’t forget,” he promised, nodding. She took the hand of the ghostly figure—her mentor, Louie, who had taught her much of her powerful magic—and curtsied to him.
“Mind that blood sugar, boy,” she added in Lonán’s direction as she began to fade. In a few moments, both of them were gone.
“Ah, and there’s my ticket out of here,” Kevice said moments later, twirling one of his daggers over the back of his hand as he approached the next figure—Ara, his partner-in-crime, with all her gleaming weapons and jewelry. The two high-fived, and Kevice waved as he began to vanish. “Stay out of trouble,” he grinned—but everyone knew that if anyone needed be told to stay out of trouble, it was him.
With their fellow page-jumpers gone, Lucien and the plant looked even unhappier with their plight. Vivian slid off the sofa to sit beside them—Lonán did likewise.
“Don’t worry, Lucien, you’ll like this,” he promised.
Lucien picked up the droopy little plant and set it on his crystal ball in the long moment of silence that followed. He didn’t look up until Vivian tapped his shoulder gently, and said, “Look.”
At first, Lucien regarded the ethereal newcomer in confusion—not recognizing this tall, slender redhead with rolled-up sleeves. But after a few moments, his expression changed—like the realization had dawned that he’d known him all his life. He turned to Lonán in wonder.
“You rewrote my past...so you could write me a friend?”
“The best way to move your story forward was to look at the past. It’s much less cloudy.” Lonán smiled. The fortuneteller beamed, his eyes turning back to his new companion. The plant whimpered and slid off the crystal ball into a dejected heap on the floor.
“You too,” Vivian said, picking it up and setting it on Lucien’s shoulder. “You’re going home with him.” The plant twittered in confusion for a moment before it zoomed across the room and perched on the apparition’s shoulder—before anyone changed their minds.
Orb in one hand and that of his new friend in the other, Lucien climbed to his feet. He smiled that childlike smile of his, and said, “Thank you, Writer. Thank you, Illustrator. He’s perfect.” As they faded, he added, “And don’t forget your umbrellas on Thursday.”
“Does the darkness of the shadow relate to anything?” Vivian asked. Lucien rotated the orb several different directions, watching the shadows intently.
“Yes,” he said at length, tilting his head so he was looking at it sideways. “But it can mean different things. It might have to do with physical distance, or strength of the magic, or intent of the magic…”
“Doesn’t narrow it down much,” Kevice muttered.
“I’ll narrow it down,” Maeve said, pushing Lonán gently out of the way. “But I’ll need that talisman.”
“And this isn’t going to require anybody bleeding?” he clarified.
“Did I say that? I need your memories. They’ll be clearer than these shadows.”
“Great,” Lonán sighed, squeezing past Vivian to go get his lancet and silently vowing that he’d tidy up the living room when all this was over, so that there would be space to walk. “Glad it only takes a drop.”
Vivian winced. “I’m having sympathy pains for you already.”
The sting of the lancet was familiar—hardly worth mentioning, really—and Lonán held out his hand to Maeve. She skimmed the drop of blood off his fingertip with a nail and licked it, staring thoughtfully for a moment before closing her eyes.
“Your blood is sweet,” she said. “Too sweet. You should fix that.”
“My sincerest apologies,” he replied sardonically, putting a test strip in his glucose meter anyways. Well, would you look at that? She was right. He adjusted his insulin pump accordingly, and looked back at Lucien—who was now playing with the flying plant.
“Talisman,” Maeve said, holding out her hand. Somewhat reluctantly, Lonán removed the pendant and set it on her palm. His neck felt bare without it—he’d worn it every day for nearly four months now.
“So while she’s meditating on your blood or whatever she’s doing, why don’t you tell us about that necklace of yours?” Kevice suggested.
Lonán closed his eyes for a moment to think. The circumstances had been quite ordinary, the memory was not a particularly vivid one. “It was…in mid-October,” he said. “We were at the renaissance faire with a few friends…one of them saw a necklace in a shop she was interested in, so we looked around while she waffled over whether or not to get it.” He was about to look at the talisman as he spoke, like it might make the image in his mind’s eye clearer, but remembered that Maeve had it and settled for closing his eyes a bit tighter. “They had lots of talismans—talismans and puzzle rings are their thing—but this one caught my eye. It’s been years since I actually bought something at a renaissance faire, and I figured, why not?”
“Did you mention to anyone that you were an author?”
“I should think it obvious by the fact that I was buying a writer’s talisman,” Lonán said. “But yes, I did. The girl working the register asked.”
“Does she know you by name?”
“I don’t know!” Lonán rubbed his temples.
“Yes,” Lucien said, pausing in his play to look at Lonán. “She asked if you were Lonán O’Riain, and when your next book was coming out.”
“Oh, so you can see that, but all you can tell us about the magic is it’s from shadowy blobs?” Kevice asked.
“I imagine it’s easier to look into the past,” Vivian said. Lucien nodded.
“Much less cloudy.” He absently rolled the crystal ball around in the air. “What do you see, Queenie?”
“I see a literally sharp reprimand in your future if you call me “Queenie” again,” she answered, opening her eyes slowly and giving Lucien a cool stare. “But I do believe you’re on the right track. There’s a strong impression on this talisman, presumably from when she was fetching it from storage.” She looked at Lonán, clearly waiting for him to speak.
“Why are you looking at me like you think I’m hiding something? If I’ve ever seen her before or since, I’m not aware of it.”
“She’s very fond of you, boy. Are you blind?”
“Aww, you have a fangirl!” Vivian teased, grinning and giving Lonán a playful shove in the arm. Lonán shoved him back, making a face. “In all seriousness, is that relevant?”
“Seer, show me the magic sources,” Maeve commanded. Lucien floated the crystal ball over to her. One of the figures had taken on a more human form. “Yes, one of these could easily be her.”
“So is the clarity about the magic strength or what?” Kevice asked.
“If I were to guess, a combination of strength and intent,” she said. “She’s the more fully-formed figure, but also lighter in color and fainter in appearance. Whereas this other figure is darker and denser, though unidentifiable.”
“So we’re still at “shadowy blob” for the stronger magic,” Kevice sighed. “Okay, what do we know? We know it’s probably a human. A lot of help that is,” he grumbled. “I wish I could see what you saw.”
In response, Maeve removed a small leather-bound book from a strap on her belt and touched her forehead to an open page. She set the book on her lap, and everyone gathered around to see what she’d done.
On the page before them was a perfectly-rendered image of the shop at the renaissance faire—accurate even to the details on Lonán and Vivian’s costumes.
“What is that?” Kevice asked, looking impressed. “How did you do that?”
“It’s a magic book,” Vivian explained. “Imbued with the power to show her whatever is in her mind’s eye.”
“Is it as you imagined, Illustrator?” she asked. Vivian nodded.
“Better.”
“Here’s the shopkeeper,” Kevice asked, pointing at the girl behind the counter with the tip of one of his daggers.
“It looks like her,” Lucien said, holding up the crystal ball. “And look—he was there too.”
“Who?” everyone asked at once.
“Him,” Lucien said, pointing at the second figure in the orb. “He’s right there.” He pointed at the book. The plant imitated his gesture. Maeve plucked the plant off the page by what appeared to be its shoulders, and placed it on Lucien’s hand.
The person in question seemed quite out-of-place in the scene—mostly because he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt amidst all the people in costume, but even that could have been excused if not for the exceptionally cross look on his face.
“What’s his problem?” Kevice asked, voicing what they were all thinking.
Maeve looked at Lonán, and when she decided that look of confusion was going to remain until she explained, she sighed. “You bumped into him.”
“Did I?” he asked, surprised.
“You apologized, of course, but he wore that same sour look the rest of the time you were in the shop. I kept a close eye on him in your memories, thinking perhaps you had interrupted an attempt at thievery, but I saw nothing.”
“Some people are like that,” Vivian said. “I think I remember him. Shouted at me, too, for walking next to you. And, if I recall, he whined about it the whole time you were talking to the shopkeeper.”
Maeve nodded. “You remember correctly.”
“But how could he possibly be involved?” Lonán asked. “He clearly has no sense of fun whatsoever, why would he be capable of magic?”
“I don’t expect it’s a conscious choice,” she said. “How did Alice get into Wonderland?”
“She followed the White Rabbit, I think,” said Vivian.
“Accidentally,” Kevice said. “You’re saying this magic thing was accidental?”
“I see no other explanation.” Maeve shrugged. “If you do, I’d be most interested in hearing it.”
Lucien suddenly gasped and clutched his crystal ball tightly to his chest, wide-eyed. “I…I understand…” he said, staring at the page. No one spoke for a long moment.
“Care to share?” Kevice prompted.
Lucien was quiet, staring at Lonán. When he spoke, his voice had lost a bit of the dreaminess it previously had. “You must get us back into our stories, Writer,” he said. “Lest we fade from them forever.”
“Of course we’ll get you back in, Lucien,” Vivian said gently, reaching out to pat the distressed fortuneteller’s hand.
“No—you must hurry!”
“Child, what are you on about?” Maeve asked.
“If we’re gone too long from our stories…we’ll fade from them,” he whispered, staring in horror at the floor—as if this disappearance was playing out on the carpet.
All was quiet while this information sunk in. No one questioned how Lucien knew this—after all, he saw everything—but all faces grew serious, especially Lonán’s.
“If you fade from your stories…I won’t be able to tell them,” he said. “Your stories will…”
“Vanish,” Vivian finished. “But what does magic have to do with that?”
“One of the people near that talisman wished the Writer good luck, the other wished him evil luck,” Lucien said. Maeve nodded.
“She said she hoped the talisman would help him bring his stories to life…and this man must have wished that he fail.” She looked at Lonán. “Thus… your characters came to life, but in doing so, set up your stories to never be told. Since this is about our conspicuous absence from our stories, you must find some way to return us to them—though I doubt writing ‘they returned home and lived happily ever after’ on a scrap of paper will be enough.”
“What if you wrote about people who were missing us?” Kevice said at length. “I’m sure Ara’s wondering where I got to, and Queenie’s kingdom is probably missing her too. Someone to pull us back in, like someone pulled us out.”
“What did I say about calling me Queenie?” Maeve asked, giving Kevice a glare cold enough to freeze water. He grinned a grin that clearly read, “what are you going to do about it?”
“Someone to pull you back in, eh? Worth a shot,” Vivian said.
“What about me?” Lucien asked softly, looking suspiciously close to tears. “I do not have any strong ties.” The flying plant chirped sadly, its leaves drooping.
“Don’t worry, Lucien—we’ll get you home,” Lonán said, tying his ponytail a little tighter and reaching for his laptop, a determined gleam in his eye. “And you too, little plant. Do you have your tablet, Vivi?”
“Do I go anywhere without it?” he asked, grinning as he pulled it from his messenger bag and curled up on the sofa. “All right, ready when you are. Who first?”
In response, Lonán grabbed a small black bag from the cedar trunk that functioned as a coffee table. He took a die from this bag, rolled it, and said, “Maeve, who’s someone close to you? And now’s not the time for any of that ‘none of your business’ stuff you always give me. I need answers, Queenie. And my talisman.”
She sighed deeply and dropped the talisman into Lonán’s outstretched hand. “…Louie. His name is Louie.”
“What does he look like?” Vivian asked, picking up his stylus and starting to sketch.
Maeve went on to describe a kind-hearted man—tall, with dark hair, purple eyes, a strong jaw, and pointy teeth. For several minutes, the room was filled with the sound of clicking of keys and the tapping of a stylus, then the focus shifted to Kevice. He described a girl named Ara—a mischievous gypsy, with short black hair, a boyish build, and an eye for shiny things. The quiet settled in once again.
Finally, all eyes turned to Lucien and the plant, sitting on the floor and looking dejected. It would have been a humorous picture, if not for the tense atmosphere.
“You can’t think of anyone, Lu?” Kevice asked uneasily. Lucien shook his head. Lonán stared at the fortuneteller for a long moment, and all got the feeling he was looking through him more than at him—like Lucien himself often did. His fingers moved absently over his talisman.
“Don’t worry, Lucien. I’ve got this.”
Lonán had first encountered the notion of “writers’ unblock” in a book of magic-themed crafts, in a tutorial on making a quill pen—the “wizard” author said that the first time you wrote with such a pen, you might feel a strange tingling in your forearm—a sensation wizards called “writers’ unblock.” Sometimes, when the desire to write struck him particularly hard, he did feel that tingling—whether he was imagining it or not, he was never sure, but it was always a good sign. Vivian said he got the same thing with drawing—and good things always came of this “unblock”
It was exactly seventeen minutes and thirty-eight seconds until Lonán stopped writing. There was a short pause somewhere in the first six minutes, when he sent something to Vivian, but it had been only a few seconds. Two minutes and six seconds after Lonán finished typing, Vivian set down his stylus.
“All right, that’s that. What now?”
“What now indeed,” Lonán said, rubbing his eyes. “It sort of just…happened…last time.”
Vivian rubbed his wrist and looked down at Lucien and the plant, still sitting on the floor and looking as if Christmas had been cancelled. “Cheer up, you two, we’re not going to let you disappear,” he promised, patting Lucien on the shoulder.
“You promise?” he asked tearfully, still clutching his crystal ball like a lifeline. The plant chirped woefully. Vivian nodded and smiled.
“Promise.”
“Oi!” Kevice suddenly shouted. All eyes immediately followed his gaze and unsheathed dagger—both of which were trained on the space between Lonán and Vivian.
The figure was faint, at first—the sort of thing one might see out of the corner of their eye when alone in the house at night. But it grew more tangible, and within moments, a ghostly figure of a tall man with dark hair had appeared in the middle of the room. He bowed politely, extended his hand, and smiled—showing a set of very pointy teeth. Maeve smiled back, then looked at Lonán.
“Do not forget us, Writer,” she said. “For no one will know of a story never told.”
“I won’t forget,” he promised, nodding. She took the hand of the ghostly figure—her mentor, Louie, who had taught her much of her powerful magic—and curtsied to him.
“Mind that blood sugar, boy,” she added in Lonán’s direction as she began to fade. In a few moments, both of them were gone.
“Ah, and there’s my ticket out of here,” Kevice said moments later, twirling one of his daggers over the back of his hand as he approached the next figure—Ara, his partner-in-crime, with all her gleaming weapons and jewelry. The two high-fived, and Kevice waved as he began to vanish. “Stay out of trouble,” he grinned—but everyone knew that if anyone needed be told to stay out of trouble, it was him.
With their fellow page-jumpers gone, Lucien and the plant looked even unhappier with their plight. Vivian slid off the sofa to sit beside them—Lonán did likewise.
“Don’t worry, Lucien, you’ll like this,” he promised.
Lucien picked up the droopy little plant and set it on his crystal ball in the long moment of silence that followed. He didn’t look up until Vivian tapped his shoulder gently, and said, “Look.”
At first, Lucien regarded the ethereal newcomer in confusion—not recognizing this tall, slender redhead with rolled-up sleeves. But after a few moments, his expression changed—like the realization had dawned that he’d known him all his life. He turned to Lonán in wonder.
“You rewrote my past...so you could write me a friend?”
“The best way to move your story forward was to look at the past. It’s much less cloudy.” Lonán smiled. The fortuneteller beamed, his eyes turning back to his new companion. The plant whimpered and slid off the crystal ball into a dejected heap on the floor.
“You too,” Vivian said, picking it up and setting it on Lucien’s shoulder. “You’re going home with him.” The plant twittered in confusion for a moment before it zoomed across the room and perched on the apparition’s shoulder—before anyone changed their minds.
Orb in one hand and that of his new friend in the other, Lucien climbed to his feet. He smiled that childlike smile of his, and said, “Thank you, Writer. Thank you, Illustrator. He’s perfect.” As they faded, he added, “And don’t forget your umbrellas on Thursday.”
(C) Karen Layman.