Seeing Magic (The Queen of the Night Series Book 1) (11 page)

She’d diverted the subject of the conversation again.

“I’m completely recovered because of the amazing things around here that you never told me existed, Mom.”  I instinctively knew not to talk openly about magic over the phone but still wanted confirmation that Mom understood my frustration.

“I’m sure things would have been much worse if Fiona hadn’t been so
talented
,” I continued.

“Well, I’m glad you weren’t seriously injured. I just wanted to let you know I’m okay too. And I wanted to wish you a Happy Litha.”

“Happy Litha, Mom?  How come we’ve never celebrated Litha at home?”

“I’ve had my reasons. I’ll explain everything to you when you’re older.”

“I’m not a child.”  I replied firmly, trying to make my tone of voice convey my maturity.

“But this isn’t the time to discuss it. I’ve said what I intended to say.”  She countered just as firmly and I knew my mother’s voice well enough to understand that the conversation had ended. A wave of sadness engulfed me. Mom was keeping secrets, as she and Dad always had, and because she didn’t want to sidestep more questions, she’d shortened our time together.

“I’m just glad you’re not hurt.” As an afterthought I added, “Be safe, Mom. Keep in touch. I love you.”

“I will, darling. I love you, too,” she said and I hung up the phone. I wasn’t sure if the phone call had reassured me or worried me more.

Chapter Twelve

Litha

The shadows were long and the sun close to setting, so I dressed for the celebration. The night was warm. I put my jean shorts back on and found a yellow gauzy peasant top. It seemed appropriate to dress in sunny colors. Fiona seemed to approve when I entered the kitchen. She was carrying a crock pot of her ratatouille.

She nodded to a steamer of brown rice that still sat on the counter. “Grab that, will you?”

I did and followed her out to the truck. All five brownies and a few gnomes I’d never been introduced to, but assumed must be from the backyard, were already in the truck bed. I handed the rice to Grog and took my place in the cab. When we got to the parking lot, it was overflowing with all kinds of vehicles. Fiona parked a ways back from the lot on the edge of the gravel road and we walked the rest of the way. The cover of trees made it dark already on the trail leading to the clearing but hundreds of fairy lights flew overhead and illuminated the path. I knew better than to stare directly at them this time. When we passed the wishing well, I realized the basket of rue was half empty and the party hadn’t even started. The clearing was surprisingly crowded when we stepped out of the forest.

“How many people are here?” 

“There’ll probably be about three hundred members of the clan, plus brownies, gnomes, pixies, all the fairies and the Sidhelas,” said a deep baritone in my ear. I shivered as his warm breath fanned the back of my neck. I hadn’t even heard Evan approach.
Not allowed, not allowed
, whispered practical Maggie in my head. I tried to fight my body’s response to his closeness. He moved to my side, giving me distance and a chance to regulate my breathing.

“Let’s find some good seats,” he said. We chose a table with a good view of the altar. Fiona placed her handbag on one side of me and Evan placed a book he’d been reading on the place setting next to mine. Duncan put something down on the place setting on Fiona’s other side.

She said, “Okay, we’ve staked our claim. Now let’s take our place in the circle. It’s almost time for the blessing.”

  Evan replied, “I have to stand with my family, but I’ll be back after the opening ceremony.”

I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Fiona explained. “The head of each household will stand in the circle, with his or her family members behind them. With Rose away, our household is just you and me. Stand behind me and watch the ceremony.” 

As I did, it felt like the start of a concert by the LA Philharmonic. People milled about and the large amount of ambient noise from the talking reminded me of musicians warming up and tuning their instruments. Slowly, they all moved into an ordered circle and silence fell over the crowd.

At some points along the circle, a large cluster of children stood behind a mother or father. At other points only one or two people stood. A noise drew my attention and I looked to the archway where the Sidhe had disappeared last night.

This time Dariene materialized out of nowhere and crossed through the arch into the clearing. She was dressed exactly as she had been last night except this time she wore a tiara, with a large amethyst stone, in her hair. Buach followed her, still wearing his little Robin Hood cap and green knickers. They preceded a single-file line of dozens of fairies who silently emerged one at a time through the portal. The females all wore gossamer gowns. The males all had caps and breeches. They each took their place along the rim of the other circle; the one which was not filled with humans.

Once all the Sidhe had crossed into the clearing and had taken their places along the circle, the brownies, gnomes, and gray flying creatures I guessed were pixies, filled in the overlapping parts of the circle around the altar. Grog took his place in the vesica piscis with his family standing behind him.

Suddenly, dozens of lit taper-style candles flew out of the portal and hovered around the circle. Each head-of-household reached out and grabbed a taper with their right hand. At this point only the candles and fairy lights cast illumination over the clearing. A few people left the circle and headed to the altar. One man, dressed in an orange caftan, stood in front of it. He was flanked by Buach, Grog, Mr. Husk and a pixie I didn’t know.

I leaned in to Fiona and whispered, “How come you aren’t up there?”

“It’s a masculine holiday. Think of it as Father’s Day for magical people.”

“Oh, I get it.”  I stepped back.

Fiona whispered over her shoulder, “That’s Connor McCoy. He’s the Great Warrior of the clan.”

Connor took a tiny, wireless microphone from the portable public address system and hooked it to the front of his caftan.

His voice boomed out over the clearing. “Welcome to Cacapon’s annual celebration of Litha.”  There was a smattering of applause. “We’re very glad that all of you could join us on this midsummer night’s eve as we honor Llew, the King of the Sun.”

I looked around the circle for Evan and was surprised to see that he did not hold the taper for his family. A man whose face looked a lot like Evan’s, but older, stood in the circle and Evan stood with a middle-aged woman and a couple of younger siblings behind him. It seemed odd that Evan was given so much responsibility as a member of the High Council, but was still just a high school student in the family hierarchy.

Lighting all of the candles on the altar, Connor McCoy continued. “The Wheel of the Year has turned once more; the light has grown for six long months. Today is Litha. It is a time for celebration. Tomorrow the light will begin to fade as the Wheel of the Year continues.”  I give honor to you, Llew, the King of the Sun, bless me with your wisdom, and give life and abundance to the Cacapon clan, the Sidhe, the Brownies, the Gnomes, the Pixies and all of the workers of the Earth. Today, at Litha, we celebrate the life and love you bring us and thank you for your blessings of warmth and light that enable our gardens, fields, orchards, livestock and even our families to grow.”

As he finished, all of the people in the circles let go of their candles, which did not fall to the ground, but instead floated in the air in front of them. The heads-of-households linked hands and as one intoned, “Thank you Llew, the King of the Sun.” 

The lit candles flew around the circles and back through the archway into nothingness. This seemed to be the end of the ritual as the group was breaking up and heading back toward the dining area.

“I’m starving,” Fiona commented.

“Me too.”

As we sat down at the table, Evan joined us and I asked him, “Didn’t you want to sit with your family?” 

He looked a couple of tables over to where they sat and replied, “Nah, I eat with them every night. Tonight, I think I’ll join you.” 

Fiona reached across me and patted his hand. “You are such a good boy, Evan. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Me either,” he agreed. “Maybe you should give me a raise.”

Fiona smiled. “It’s something we can discuss next week.”  Then the platters, bowls and crock pots of food started to make their way around the table and almost all talking ceased as people served themselves.

At first, there were so many wonderful dishes all I could do was eat. After a while, I looked up from my plate and became aware of people walking around and visiting with each other. They exchanged jokes and gossip. Several people came to our table and were introduced to me. I guessed I was one of the few new faces at the feast and as a result, a topic for gossip, but everyone seemed genuine in their sentiments of welcome. Even more people came by to tease Evan about his performance at the bonfire leaping contest the previous year.

I shook my head and asked, “What are they talking about?” 

He just smiled mysteriously, and said, “Maybe you’ll find out later.”

Then he was interrupted by another person I’d never met. Both Evan and Fiona became embroiled in a conversation with the man about a dispute currently waiting to be resolved by the High Council. The man was lobbying them to win votes for his solution. The minute details of the conflict bored me, so I looked across the table at Mr. Husk and his wife for conversation.

“Mrs. Plump,” I started, “I wanted to ask you if you can actually transform into a tomato.”

She smiled and Mr. Husk chuckled.

“Ah well, you know lassie, it’s hard to retain your figure after you’ve birthed a few bairns, but I’d like to think I do a good job of looking like a nice, ripe beefsteak tomato hanging from a healthy vine.”

Mr. Husk guffawed. “Of course you do, my love, if a beefsteak tomato is the size of a watermelon and the vine stretches the length of a cricket pitch.”

She slapped the back of his gnarled hand with her own. “Ach, love…how dare you abuse me after I’ve borne you three hundred and fifty-seven beautiful children?  Each and every one of them is a joy to behold.”

Mr. Husk’s many-lined face softened. The layers of skin around the edges of his mouth crinkled upward and he had the far-away gaze of someone remembering good times. “That they are, my love; that they are,” he agreed.

Mrs. Plump continued. “Of course most of our children have made their own way in the world, as it were, you know. Only a few of them made the crossing to America with us.”

I interjected, “Mrs. Plump, you look like you have a wonderful figure to me.”  I couldn’t tell an attractive gnome from a three-bagger if my life depended on it, but it seemed like the right thing to say since I’d started the conversation.

She preened herself as she replied, “Well, I do try my best, dear. I suppose I do spread myself out into a great many more vines than I used to, and I dig my roots deep, deep into the earth.”

“Why do you do it?” I asked. “Why do you make yourselves look like the plants you cultivate?”

She seemed to be taken aback by the question, but she answered it promptly. “Well, it’s simple enough, dearie. We do it for two reasons. First, we want to communicate with our charges on their level so we can serve them to the best of our abilities. And second, of course, is to hide ourselves from the Romans.”

This comment reminded me of a question that had been burning in the back of my mind for weeks. “Who are the Romans?”

She glanced at Mr. Husk who grunted, as if surprised at the question. He looked back at her and said, “It must not be a term they use out in California.”

“Oh, it’s not.”  I quickly agreed. “I’ve never heard the term used before.”

“Ah, then, lassie, well…the Romans are everyone else.”

“Everyone else?”

“I refer to those without magical gifts, dear; the ones who don’t understand our ways.”

“Oh, I see.”

“What do you call them, dear?”

“Uhmm,” I scanned my databanks for a plausible explanation that didn’t reveal how ignorant I was about this world of magic. For some reason, I was ashamed of my lack of education. “I’d probably call them something I’d be embarrassed to say in polite company,” I finished lamely.

Mr. Husk chuckled and Mrs. Plump seemed to accept my answer at face value so I quickly moved the conversation forward.

“Why do you call them Romans?”

“Well I suppose it’s because the Romans were the first large group of people to invade our homes and persecute us for our way of life. None of them had an ounce of magical blood and they swept across all of the British Isles destroying everything they had no use for…including many, many of our brethren. They built that horrible Hadrian’s Wall and shed the blood of our people indiscriminately. They didn’t care if it was the blood of our High Council members or of our smallest children. They made an impression.”

“Aye, they did,” agreed Mr. Husk solemnly as if he were remembering the Roman invasions himself.

“Since then, we’ve referred to all non-magical people as Romans.”

“I understand.”  At that moment a tray of Fiona’s meat pies arrived and the mood lightened considerably. Mr. Husk licked his lips as he accepted the platter. “To have Steak and Kidney Pasties twice in one week is such a treat! It does me heart good.”  He took two pies for himself and bit into one heartily.

Within moments, another platter arrived and Mr. Husk’s face broke out in a huge grin. “Look, me love, they’ve made fresh chips too!  Now this is a party!”  He reached for the tongs and scooped out a large helping of the still warm, thick-sliced steak fries onto his plate.

In the distance someone shouted, “Bring on the games!”  A general roar of agreement surged from the crowd.

Fiona looked over at me and sighed, “I’m glad this is the only sun holiday where everyone wants to play with fire. So that’s our cue to stand by at the first-aid station. Are you ready?”

“Just tell me what to do,” I commented as I too, got up from the table.

As we were walking toward it, I saw a group of musicians move into the area by the altar and start to set up their instruments and equipment.

“Wow,” I commented, “there’s a band.”

Fiona replied, “It’s a group of local clan members who get together to play folk music. This might be different than the kind of music you prefer.” As she said this, one of the musicians took a bagpipe out of a case.

“Yeah, this should be a new experience for me,” I said dryly. I’d always associated bagpipes with marches and dirges but this band played lively, Celtic music and several people started to dance.