Excerpt

Rowan Blaize

and the

Hand of Djin Rummy

Book Two

of the Enchanted Heritage Chronicles

By Jonathan Kieran

Excerpt

Leticia Beauregard and Gertrude Gokey were at it again, though to anyone remotely familiar with the pair across the centuries, use of the word “again” would seem downright superfluous. It is best, perhaps, to say that Letty and Gert are at it, as if no past or future exists. Consider them locked in a perpetual “now,” at least in terms of their mutual and relentless fidget.

Luckily for St. Augustine and various other parts of the world, theirs was a low-grade magical antagonism of viral proportions, and no one was ever injured in the fallout. Well, that is not exactly the truth. Only rarely did injuries occur, and then not necessarily on purpose. Most were victims of collateral damage due to dangerous, hurtling objects caught in perfectly understandable magical vortices, shockwaves, and minor explosions. In short, neither witch ever intended to injure anything or anyone hapless enough to be located within a reasonably distant radius of one of their arguments. They did not consider themselves responsible, however, for those unfortunate enough to be located within unreasonable radiuses.

Leticia’s lanky frame was draped like a crumpled, worn garment that had been casually tossed across the length of a recliner and its footrest. She was an almost horizontal figure, from her slipper-clad feet to her dignified but eagle-beaked hook of a nose. A cool compress of cucumber water, chamomile, and deadly nightshade was placed over her eyes, both of which were weary from having to stare for hours at straggling tourists on St. George Street and then at tourists poking, prodding, and (if they knew what was good for them) purchasing distinctive products in the pepper shop itself. Letty Beauregard was not a witch to suffer looky-loos lightly, except perhaps at the very end of the shift, when so much commerce and interaction with mortals took its toll upon her, along with the constant drain of bickering all the livelong day with Gert. This last, however, could sometimes be an invigorating and ever-renewable source of energy, too; it all depended upon the subject under “discussion.”

Unwittingly, and without any overt magical influence whatsoever, Letty and Gert seemed to have invented a Perpetual Motion Machine of Squabble. Others, of varying degrees of skill, had attempted and perhaps come close to such exquisite craftsmanship, but these examples were so many mere stabs in the proverbial dark, compared to what the witches had accomplished. Had mortal scientists ever managed to observe and experiment, they might have found a means of channeling the energy of Letty’s and Gert’s Incessant Wrangle, duplicating its dynamics in order to build the elusive device that would garner every prize and plaudit imaginable, to say nothing of the alteration of history’s very course through the cosmic continuum.

For now, however, the world of scientific achievement would have to settle for a distant second place.

Letty’s long, sinewy arms half-rested upon and half-dangled over the plush arms of the recliner, her knuckles barely grazing the tiled floor below. Gert, for her part, was fifteen feet away, perched on a sofa at the other end of the living room, watching her beloved television set and listening via the headphones Letty had insisted upon gifting her for her birthday in lieu of “gifting” her a television set that would be teleported directly out the window, through the muggy Florida air with lightning speed, and plunged with considerable explosiveness and satisfaction into the deepest part of the bay. Both witches were in their evening housecoats, sipping their preferred after-work liquid refreshments, which they described to anyone who ever asked as “iced tea” in summertime and “hot tea” in winter, but which was in fact datil pepper-infused vodka (with a splash of wormwood) all year round … and Bloody Marys with the same stuff on Sundays, when the shop was closed. Fondness for the datil pepper and for any alcoholic beverage that could be derived, concocted, or distilled from said pepper constituted particularly sacred ground—rare ground—upon which both witches were always united in unflappable agreement.

Like most witches, Letty and Gert had stomachs of steel and livers to match. A week earlier, Gert had even informed Letty that she once “Knew an old sorceress who actually had herself a zip-out liver! Why, this old gal could drink a jug of white lightning every morning for breakfast, burn down an entire forest with her breath by lunchtime, take her liver out before bedtime, give it a good wring into a bucket, put it back inside her belly, zip herself up, and pick up right where she left off the next day!”

Letty, of course, had told Gert to stop being such an idiot and go soak her own head in a bucket of moonshine, but for all she knew, the story could have been true. Gertrude Gokey always had some rather unusual and mystifyingly weird acquaintances, even for a witch.

Their tidy, spacious apartment above the store was cheerful and redolent with near-textbook grandmotherliness: lace doilies atop parlor tables; elaborate cuckoo clocks; framed embroidery upon the walls; large, blossoming glass bowls piled with cookies and nuts; potted ficus trees and window-sill planters lush with herbs and dainty flowers; knitting baskets crammed with yarn; little rolled-up tubes of Ben-Gay jammed between the sofa cushions or forgotten on knick-knack shelves. The casual onlooker would never believe that the two occupants of such a quaint space were frequently guilty of summoning-up any number of denizens in the Hierarchy of Hellspawn to exact little measures of domestic revenge or mischief upon each other in return for someone forgetting to wash out the teacups or empty the lint-filter in the dryer.

This particular evening in the House of Beauregard and Gokey was, so far, a relatively mild one in terms of attritional wars. Early on, both women had been in exceptionally pleasant moods, at least for them. Traffic in the store had been much better than usual, considering the busy season was over, and Rowan Blaize’s swanky All Hallows Eve party was very much in their thoughts. Gert had her ideas about what kind of grand entrance Letty was planning to make, and Letty had her own inkling about what Gert might try to do, but neither woman would dream of revealing to the other so much as a glimmer of open curiosity in that regard. Their minds were, in fact, spinning like windmills in a gale. Despite outward appearances of evening relaxation, each had been preoccupied with plans to outdo the other in grandeur this year, in ways that did not include stinging mud-baths and the drowning of Swamp Goblins.

Next to the satyr-headed coatrack by the “garage” (broom closet), a mammoth grandfather-clock was close to striking ten and Letty, as if aware something had been too long awry in their universe, finally found a reason to harangue Gert.

“Hey! Turn that blasted TV program down, Gertrude Gokey. I can hear fools jabbering right through those headphones, you inconsiderate old baggage!”

To Letty’s surprise, and to the disappointment of her habitually cultivated sense of antagonism, Gert grabbed the remote and complied without one of her usual, dagger-like retorts. Turning down the set, she leaned back on the sofa and took a luxurious sip from her martini glass, which was nearly the size of a small fishbowl and, like Letty’s, always magically chilled to a tantalizing, frosty temperature. Letty lifted the comforting compress from her eyes and yelled across the room.

“You figure Rowan Blaize remembered to invite Mr. Wagswrath, that old troll what lives up under the Bridge of Lions, to the party this year? He forgot to invite him last year and look what happened. Nice little family from Japan gets eaten up in a fit o’ pique and a whole country goes off-the-boil wondering what happened to them. Tokyo blaming the scandal of our American crime rate. Ha! The secrets we have to hold onto as witches! Take off them headphones, Gert, and listen to me. You think he remembered the invitation this year?”

“Wagswrath got invited. I remember Rowan telling me himself the other day!” shouted Gert in reply, never looking away from the TV set. The miniscule images of contestants waltzing on some dance competition program could be seen reflected in the twin shimmering black pools of her fixated eyeballs. “The troll’s lucky Blaize didn’t annihilate him for what he did to them poor Yakimotos. But Rowan knows as well as the next warlock—trolls’ll be trolls. Wagswrath has been invited this year, right enough.”

Then she took another swig from her martini glass and belched. There was not even a perfunctory “Why in the name of Nineveh are you asking me such questions?” from the lips of La Gokey.

Letty was not best pleased. She removed her compress and flung it onto a nearby end-table with indignation. She struggled for a moment and then gritted her teeth; a swiftly muttered spell brought her LaZboy into the full upright position.

“And what about Iggy the incubus, the drunk?” squawked Letty. “You think he got invited again? I only ask because the nasty little varmint got good and tossed at last year’s party and tried to put the moves on that Miranda, Rowan’s foundling or assistant or whatever she is. You think he’ll be allowed back?”

Gert shrugged her plump shoulders. “Who knows and who cares?” she yelled. “Everyone gets a bit tipsy at that party and even if he does show up, Miranda knows how to look after herself. At least, well enough for a mortal. I don’t expect Rowan or Miranda will hold too much against the lecherous Iggy. He’ll be there. Count on it.”

Gert’s eyes continued to devour the action on Dancing with the Stars. Letty’s eyes, riveted with umbrage, continued to devour Gert. After a moment, her stern, paper-cut of a mouth twisted as if chewing upon the world’s tartest lemon and she rose, imperious, from her recliner, marched across the floor and ripped the headphones off her housemate’s cornrowed skull.

“What’s the big idea?” squealed Gert, slopping a precious bit of Datil Vodka onto her lavender bathrobe. “They’re just about to give Misty and Puffy their scores for the Paso Dobre!”

Letty’s eyes darted with serpentine speed and cunning toward the television set. The screen went dead with a swift static sound and the remote in Gert’s hand evaporated, completely, in an acrid puff of black smoke.

“Well, I NEVER!” gasped Gert. “What do you think you’re doing, woman? I suppose I’m to be thankful my TV set didn’t blow-up just now into a million pieces of confetti, like last time?

“Don’t doubt that the thought crossed my mind,” said Letty, arms akimbo.

“What manner of bewildered bee has burrowed into your brazen bonnet this time, Beauregard? I thought we was having a real nice, relaxin’ evening, savoring our voddies and generally staying out of each other’s way, for a change. I can enchant that set back on just as well as you can shut it off. No remote needed. So kindly tell me what’s on your mind or let me get back to my show!”

“Something very ominous is on my mind, Gert Gokey, and I don’t mind telling you it’s giving me a slight chill down the spine and frankly down the backside, too.”

Letty glowered down at Gert like a towering pinnacle of doom, her slightly bloodshot but emerald green eyes ablaze with portent. This was certainly worth the interruption of a dance program. Gert took a bracing sip of her martini and considered her friend’s gloomy countenance. The grandfather-clock began to strike its mournful hour.

“By the jingles, what’s got you so spooked, Letty? I ain’t seen this kinda look on your face since that time we were back in the Old Country and that miserable Mephisto beat you at cards, and, on account of you being the loser, he gave you the choice of getting turned into a skinny black swan for a hundred years or else going upstairs to his room and …”

“Shut up about that, you sour old gossip!” snapped Letty. “This is something completely different.” She sat down with a thud on their blue velvet settee, staring at the hem of her housecoat and then at her slippers, as if the solution to her sudden panic might be found amid the worn tufts and tattered edges of terry cloth. “Something big is comin’ into this town, Gertrude. I can feel it in my marrow.”

“Whaddaya mean by ‘something big,’ Letty?” Gert reached for a datil pepper gumdrop in the crystal candy-dish near the sofa. She was entranced. Forget about the dance show. Letty’s forebodings were always top-notch entertainment. “What do you see? A storm brewin’ out over the ocean? A bad Northeaster, maybe? It’s a little early, yet, but you always did get a crick in your back when a nasty wind was about to blow. Remember when the old pier got taken out back in 1984 and you warned everybody who’d listen that—”

Letty waved her crabbed hands as if swatting away some invisible, buzzing cloud of gnats. “Nothing like a storm,” she said. “A storm is occasion for concern, sure, but not for outright foreboding.”

“Then what, exactly, are you feeling, girl?”

“I wish I knew, exactly.” Letty nibbled with vexation on a bony knuckle. “I’ve been feeling some sort of weird vibe coming on ever since we closed up the shop this afternoon, but at first I thought it was just my eyes getting tired, or that we weren’t clucking at each other like old hens, as we normally do. Now it’s gotten bad. Real bad. There’s this huge sense of trouble, Gertrude, just at the very outskirts of my intuition. But it’s massive. I been trying to focus and get some kind of hold on it, but it’s eluding me. I even tried the nightshade compress, but nothing clear is coming through.”

“Could be those cabbage rolls you ate last night,” ventured Gert. “They fairly gave you the head-sweats, you put so much Boomslang Curry on them.”

Letty shook her braid-reinforced head and placed her hands around her ears, wincing in terrible pain. Gert began to actually worry about her friend for the first time in ages.

“Hey. You ain’t kidding when you say there’s something off-kilter somewhere, are you?”

“No,” croaked Letty, lowering a hand and motioning to Gert. “Give me a sip of your drink. I’m too dizzy to get up and fetch my own. Ain’t even going to try and levitate it over to me.”

Gert carefully handed Letty the sloshing, ice-cold martini and watched with fascination as her companion took a long, burning draught.

“Here. That seems to have hit the spot for now. Thank you, Gertrude. Oh, I say. Yes. That hit the spot and then some.” Her eyes widened as Gert took back the empty glass. “Say, do you remember that feeling both of us got just around the time Rowan Blaize first came to St. Augustine? Only it wasn’t necessarily an uncomfortable feeling?”

“Yeah, I remember,” said Gert. “It was just a sense that something, well … BIG … was on the scene and we didn’t know what it was. But we could feel the weight of it, couldn’t we? We could feel the power. That’s how we knew Rowan was one of the real Old Ones, one of the Mighty Ones, once we met him in person. Only we never give him the satisfaction of telling him that we knew—and that we know—how powerful he really is. You said we didn’t want him putting on airs, no matter who he was, and you were right about that, Letty. But sure enough, that was the feeling we felt when he came. Something big. And you’re saying this premonition or whatever it is you’re having right now is like that, too?”

“In a way, yes. In a way, no. This is big trouble. Danger, even.”

“To the city?” asked Gert. “You positive it ain’t no hurricane the mortal weather people might’ve missed on their Doppler? Surely you can’t be feeling anything that’s a danger to the two of us. What have we got to be afraid of?”

“I tell you I don’t know, yet!” snapped Letty. “But I know enough to know that we would be well advised to feel afraid, Gertrude Gokey. Possibly very afraid, from the feel of things.”

“Blast it all!” said Gert, chewing her gumdrop and gathering the folds of her housecoat and nightdress. She, too, could intuit momentous things and events, being a witch of considerable skill and experience, but she did not have a knack for getting a preview of coming catastrophes the same way Letty did. Her inner spirit was too optimistic—or, at least, more optimistic than Letty’s—to be an Oracle of Impending Cataclysm. Leticia Beauregard, on the other hand, had been predicting plagues, wars, earthquakes, eruptions, and everything from mob uprisings to mudslides since they had been girls back in the Old Country. If Letty hung her head in her hands and told you that trouble with a capital T was on the way, you would be wise to sit up and take note, because it was on the horizon.

“Something outrageous would have to crop up now, just as we’re ready to get some nice rest after a busy summer,” griped Gert. “Just as all my programs are getting really good and even that Pint-Sized Princess pageant is coming to town!”

At this, Letty’s hands flew again to her temples and she was wracked with pain.

“What’d I say?” gasped Gert, now thoroughly perplexed. “Can’t be the pageant coming to town that’s got your feathers ruffled. I know you don’t approve of all that mortal fuss and vanity, but it’s just a two-bit kiddie show meant to tickle softhearted old gals like me. Ain’t nothing evil about it.”

“Don’t you think I know that, Gokey?” Letty’s voice was now husky and subdued. “Fact is, I’ve been getting odd little jolts all day, now that I think about it. Ever since you started watching that ridiculous business on the TV down in the shop, when Rowan came in for a visit. I’m sure you mentioning it again is just some reminder that set me off automatically, some awful reflex, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m getting one doozy of a dark message, loud and clear, but without any actual shape or shine to it. You wouldn’t believe the pain caused by being unable to get a grip on the exact form of it, whatever it is. I feel like my head has either been split wide open with an axe, or else I’m gonna be begging you to split it open, before all is said and done!”

Gert set her slightly mole-addled and somewhat stubbly jaw with determination and leaned forward on the sofa. “I may not understand the frustration, Letty my girl, but sure as Saturn’s Seventh Sister I believe it’s real, and that means we have something well worth a proper investigation!”

She rose with buxom enthusiasm and stalked into the kitchen of their spacious quarters. In a moment, Letty heard the sounds of pots, pans, and various other items of a culinary character banging and clanging against each other and the cheerfully painted pastel cupboards. A dish crashed onto the rust-red tile and shattered.

“Drat,” grumbled Gert.

“What in the world are you doing in there?” called Letty. “The headache’s bad enough as it is. When I said I might need my skull split with an axe I didn’t mean for you to go rummaging around for one. Get back in here and help me talk this thing through! Ain’t no time for you to prepare one of your evening snacks, not at such a troublesome hour.”

“Not looking for no axe or snacks, Letty, though a slice of that key lime pie in the fridge would be just the thing right now, what with my nerves. And it is way past time to ‘talk things through.’ I do believe you have said enough.”

Gert emerged a moment later from the kitchen, triumphant. Her bosom swelled with take-charge confidence in the doorway. “You think we need to talk, Letty, when what we really need to do is … wok!”

Letty rolled her eyes and flung herself backward in a show of despair upon the settee, lanky legs sprawled out across the faces of the jolly monkeys sewn into the pattern of their tropical-motif area rug. “Why, by the treacherous trade winds of Tartarus, did you go and fish that ridiculous thing out at a time like this?” she asked, forlorn.

“Because we need it at a time like this,” said Gert, brandishing the most powerful and magically utilized member of her vast collection of kitchen utensils, gadgets, gewgaws, knick-knacks, and novelties. It was a large, dented, heavily tarnished, and not at all well-scrubbed wok. Her nephew had sent it to her all the way from some crowded, dingy street market in Peking nearly a century ago, and though she had since used it only half a dozen times in her desultory experiments with Chinese cooking (a cuisine Gert never cared for in the first place, but how was poor Horatio, her least-attentive nephew, to know a private thing like that?), she had nevertheless found the clumsy, shelf-hogging object to be a most unexpected and indispensable talisman.

While the dusty spell-corner in Gert’s otherwise spotless bedroom was stocked to the ceiling with crystal balls, obsidian shards, silver-lined jade bowls, and ampullae full of exotic inks meant specifically for purposes of diehard divination, ethereal eavesdropping, and surefire second sightings, the wok was not to be trumped. Never, in all of her years as an enterprising and methodologically inquisitive witch, had Gert managed to conjure up more accurate and informative visions than she had in her wok. It wasn’t much to look at, and not the least bit esoteric compared to her other, more overtly enchanted and mysterious implements, but she would not trade the wok for all the Magic Mirrors in the entire panoramic history of Wicked Queendom.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Gert,” bleated Letty from the settee. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna start playing around with that beat up oriental cooker!”

“I am,” asserted Gert, clearing off the coffee table and arranging her warped wok upon the thick glass surface between them. “We’ll both feel a heck of a lot better for a little stir-scrying, tonight, don’t you think? Why, the way this thing’s worked for me in the past, we might even get to the bottom of your migraine premonition toot sweet! You could irritate the tar right out of them pits in LaBrea, but you are my best friend, after all. I can’t rightly stand to see you so bent out of shape. Besides, if there’s something nasty on the way that can put a couple of old pros like us to serious inconvenience, then I’d prefer to get me a good solid look at what it is, ahead of time, so we can figure out a way to calculate an ounce of prevention, if necessary, or ponder, if at all possible, our pound of cure.”

Letty groaned as she pulled herself into an upright position and hobbled over to the recliner to retrieve the nightshade compress, which was still visibly steaming due to the intensity of her oracular fever. She placed it back atop her sweat-soaked braids, anyway.

“You really think you can tune that dumb thing well enough to get a decent read on what’s eating away at my brain?” she asked, sitting down stiffly next to Gert on the sofa. “If I recall correctly, the last time you fetched that cooker out of the cupboard to have a gander at something unforeseen, you claimed a great brush fire was gonna sweep through Marsh Creek all the way to Crescent City when, in fact, you was really looking at a burnt-up old piece of broccoli you never bothered to scrub outta that fry-bowl. The Broccoli Incident was more than a bit embarrassing, if you want to know the truth, especially since you got me all worked up about it and we ended up calling the entire fire department down on the south side of the city. When the fire chief asked you exactly where you’d first seen this ragin’ brush fire, you were so overexcited you forgot yourself and told him you saw it in the Chinese cooking pan! Gah. We had to employ actual Memory Dissipation spells on the poor fellow, or else we’d never have been able to live that one down!”

Gert pursed her lips and pretended not to be bothered too much by Letty’s dour skepticism, or by remembrance of the admittedly unfortunate screw-up with the broccoli floret that was supposed to have incinerated half of North Florida. Witches who are brave enough to pioneer hitherto unexplored expeditions into the paranormal possibilities of common cookware are bound to make mistakes once in a while, Gert figured. That was the price one paid for being a maverick. Besides, the wok had worked wonders for her on past occasions when she had peered into its smudgy depths to perceive any number of pertinent secrets unjustifiably withheld from her deserving curiosity.

Why, there had been the time only last year when one of the sweet old sisters of St. Joseph had wandered away from her room at the majestic convent just down the street on St. George and no one could find her. The entire town had been beside itself, seeing as Sister Mary Eusebius had a slight touch of dementia and was a frail thing no sturdier than a water lily. The wind might have blown the dear old soul most anywhere, but Gert had yanked the wok out from under the sink the moment she heard the news and muttered a particularly incisive spell in which the word “nun” was craftily paired with “on the run” and, not a few moments later, there was Sister Mary Eusebius, plain as plain, wedged between a chipped, life-sized statue of St. Anthony, with her habit snagged on a spoke of St. Catherine’s wheel, way up in some discarded statue room of the convent attic.

No one had ever entertained the notion that eighty eight year-old Mary Eusebius could make it up all those stairs into the most forgotten junk nook of the convent, but she had done so. Gert had promptly called the authorities to inform them that they could call off the citywide search, because Sister had somehow wafted upward on breezes unknown to be with the saints … the dusty wooden and plaster ones, anyhow. At the time, the whole city considered Sister Mary Eusebius’s rescue one of the feel good stories of the month, if not quite a miracle (little did they know), and even Letty had paid Gert a compliment, saying that it had been “a very ecumenical thing” for her to do, “what with helping out the Catholics and all.”

Gert now reminded her friend of that stir-scrying success and a couple of other select examples from past spellcraft involving the fryer. “I think this could solve your conundrum lickety split,” she said while pouring a stream of crystal clear water from Tarpon Springs out of a vial she had also brought from the kitchen. The liquid made a happy little splattering sound against the cast iron surface of the pan. Gert licked her lips with anticipation. Riddle solving was great fun, especially when she was the one using power to do the solving. Given the pain Letty was in, however, and the volatility of her moods even in the most tranquil circumstances, Gert was careful to explain that this was going to be a joint magical venture.

“Letty, you got the gift of Catastrophic Foresight,” she burbled pleasantly. “Anything disgusting, vile, and hideous ends up in your head when it comes to that.”

“Gee, thanks,” sneered Letty, adjusting her compress and peering doubtfully down her nose into the quivering little pool inside the wok.

“I don’t mean no offense, of course,” explained Gert. “But here’s where the two of us can use our powers in tandem to accomplish something crucial. Your head gets saddled with all manner of evil and filth, whereas my vision is occupied with things of beauty and day-in day-out practicality. If we combine our magic, I can pierce through the veils, as it were. I can work my side of things with what you’ve got to give me.”

Letty blinked, wearily. “What sort of spell are you fixing to cast in this particular instance?”

There were literally dozens, as both witches were aware—a slew of spells that could potentially be employed to achieve the desired effect.

“More to the point,” added Letty, “what sort of spell am I supposed to give you, so that our magic can work in tandem, as you say?”

Letty knew a few spells that fell under that description and was a little vague on the particulars; proactive divination had never been one of her enthusiasms, not when harrowing visions and forebodings tended to descend upon her out of the blue, with no extra effort required whatsoever.

Gert bent low over the table and blew gently upon the surface of the spring water. “Oh, you ain’t gonna need to use no spell, Letty.”

“But I thought you said we were going to work magic together to get to the heart of this.”

“We is. Or we are. I’m going to do the spell. Don’t worry. It’s a good one my Aunt Odina learned from old Baba Yaga when she was apprenticing as Baba’s housemaid back in the day. You just have to give me some of your magic to gaze through.”

“And how do you want me to do that without a spell of my own?” pressed Letty.

“Easy,” replied Gert with a colossal and sparklingly white grin. “You just have to spit.”

“What?”

“Hold your head back, clear your throat once or twice, and work yourself up the biggest loogie you can. Then give the thing a good ole hawk right into the water, see? But not too forceful that it splashes any liquid out of the vessel. That might damage the framework of the charm. It has to be the right amount of phlegm. Best if you let it just kinda plop gently into the wok, and then I’ll cast the enchantment and have myself a good look.”

Letty looked at her friend as if not quite certain which one of her ears she intended to smack first.

“Have you lost your mind entirely, woman? What kind of half baked, two-bit hedgewitch nonsense are you trying to put over on me? I’ve a good mind to send you out on an evening stroll down St. George wearing that wok for a bonnet, and nothing else but your knickers. Do you not realize how serious this predicament could be?”

“I absolutely do,” countered Gert, who was more than a little offended, given that she was trying to help out of genuine concern for her stricken sidekick. “I wouldn’t be going to all this trouble when my most favorite programs are on, one after another, tonight. Not if I thought this was some sort of joke. Really, Letty, you have always been a regular snob when it comes to using the really good, backwoods nitty-gritty my folks taught me when I was just an up and coming practitioner of the Unspeakable Arts.

“That’s right. You’ve always fancied yourself too good for the meat and potato, down and dirty aspects of the Craft, just because you happened to grow up in a big city amongst the type who sipped their nectar from pretty little cups and kept their pinky fingers stuck out straight in the air like they was ready to poke some poor slob’s eye out, if that slob was fool enough to get close to y’all, get right nearby as you sat around and talked about how much better you was than the rest of us. As you well know, Leticia Beauregard, I grew up in the woods, where we had to scrape and scrounge for every little bit of magical advantage we could get! We didn’t have them fancy spellbooks bound in unicorn leather and decorated with gold leaf made from the dust of dead faery wings. No, ma’am, we did not.

“When I was a tender-horn, we had to learn our hexes the hard way, just so we could keep ourselves from getting chewed up by certain kinds of faeries, swarming thick as mosquitos in them days, as I recall. We had to make our magic work with sticks and stones and scattered bones, while your folk were off fine-tuning your diction, and messing about with the most poetic ways possible to cast your spells. We didn’t have the luxury of poetry in the shadow of those big old broody mountains. We couldn’t waste our breath crafting epic chants when it behooved us to conjure up just enough wind to get our broomsticks off the ground while being chased by werewolf packs! Our ways were rough around the edges in the big woods, and they weren’t very pretty, but you knew you were a sorceress right down to the marrow when you could take a strand of some measly old spider’s web and stretch it out long and fast enough to wrap-up an entire gaggle of Wood Wart Ogres that had you cornered, and was about to club your brains out and scramble them up for lunch.”

“Oh, why was I born at all?” lamented Letty, but Gert was not to be thwarted.

“You make fun of my methods and cluck your tongue at the very notion of using a little sweat, blood, elbow grease, or spit to activate a spell, but let me tell you one thing: Old Baba Yaga didn’t think twice about stuff like that. She would stand up to an Ice Daemon as big as a hillside and you know what she’d do? She’d cackle that awful cackle of hers, hawk a spit-wad right in its eye from two hundred feet, and melt the no good thing down until it was flooding like a river around her boots! Ha! Let me tell you, honey, when ole Baba got to cackling in them deep woods and them beastly black mountains, the troublemakers would make tracks and dare not show their sorry faces again, if they knew what was good for them. Baba lived in a little cabin made of gnarly logs and had but one kettle for cooking, tea, and doing her laundry, and she never so much as stuck out a pinky when she swigged from her jug of liquor. That’s right. Baba never wore much but a tattered rag on her head, either, with burlap sacks for skirts, and she wouldn’t pluck the bristles from her facial moles for all the gold in a dragon’s trove, but she was mightier than mighty!

“You know what else? She stunk—stunk bad enough to clear a forest of every sensitive nosed creature for a two mile radius, but she never fussed with fancy spells. She’d just narrow her one eye, stomp that peg-leg of hers, and cackle. The job got done. My strain of witches didn’t have access to elite forms of magic, but what we did have were the no-nonsense wiles passed down to us through the tender mercies of Baba. She was probably the least fancy witch on earth, but the name of Baba Yaga struck fear into the hearts of rotten old kings who wouldn’t think twice about carving up their own children for supper! When it came down to hex for hex, fireball for fireball, shamble for shamble, and cackle for cackle, there ain’t many witches that live now, lived before, or shall come to live—in this world or any other—that could go toe-to-toe with Baba Yaga, my friend. You’re a skillful witch, Letty, and you’ve come a long way towards getting down from that high horse your folks raised you on, but sometimes I fear you’ll never lose that arrogant streak that runs through you like a vein, pumping hoity-toity impulses from that aching head of yours all the way down to your crooked toes. You’re a grand witch, Letty, but you ain’t no better than me, and you certainly ain’t no Baba Yaga. If the occasional spit ball or loogie was good enough for her, well, then, it’s sure as heck good enough for the likes of you.”

Gert set her jaw like stone and regarded the gobsmacked Leticia with an even stonier, yet somehow girlish and mischievously encouraging, gaze.

“So what do you want me to do, Gokey? I can’t listen to another word of this jabber.”

“Just spit in the wok like I told you, Letty,” said Gert, nodding up at her friend’s braids. “Because judging from those little drops of blood starting to trickle down your forehead, we may not have a whole lot of time.”

Jonathan Kieran is an author and illustrator with a passion for world travel and ancient history ... and an occasionally bewildered grasp of the present. Officially launching January 2013, the 'Rowan Blaize' books are the first offerings in Jonathan's Enchanted Heritage Chronicles series, with a multitude of additional works on the way.

Learn more at www.rowanblaize.com.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 17.04.2013

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