G w thomas and david bai.., p.18
G. W. Thomas & David Bain, page 18
“How did Steppner react?” I asked.
“He damn near pissed himself,” Dooley said. “He was terrified. He ran outside, leavin’ me alone with the red-haired woman. Then she vanished.”
“She ran outside with him?”
Dooley shook his head. “She vanished right in front o’ me eyes,” he said. “Like smoke. I ran outside and grabbed Steppner. He was wailin’ like a schoolgirl. I tried to ask him who the woman was. He swung his fist and just missed catchin’ me on the chin. I went down and he ran back into his house.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
Dooley finished his second beer. “I came back here. I started drinkin’ and I ain’t stopped. I won’t stop, neither. Not now that I’ seen me one o’ the good people.”
I blinked. “Good people?”
“The fey folk,” Dooley said. “The fairies.”
Leroy let out a breath. “Man’” he said. “You are one fuckin’ drunk Irishman.”
Dooley looked at Leroy then began to laugh. It wasn’t a happy kind of laughter. It was the kind of laughter that you knew wouldn’t stop, not even when the boys in the white jackets came to take you away.
AFTER that Leroy dragged Dooley upstairs. I got back into the Buick and braved the freeway again. By the time I pulled up to Steppner’s mansion it was fully dark.
Inside the lights were bright and the stereo was playing some lively jazz. Dinner was being served, buffet style. The girls, the photographers and Steppner were all enjoying the food, the music and some free-flowing champagne.
I was more than a little shocked to see DaVinci amongst the revelers, but there he was in his old tweed suit, sitting on a low stool, balancing a plate of food on his bony knees. He was in what looked like earnest conversation with Candy, Steppner’s blonde companion, while he picked at his beef Wellington.
Paula spied me and came over. She grabbed my arm and led me to the table. I loaded a plate and Paula grabbed two glasses of champagne. I sat on a chair next to DaVinci. Paula sat next to me.
“I see you’re making progress,” I said, leaning towards DaVinci. “Though I must admit, it’s not usually the kind of progress you make.”
DaVinci narrowed his eyes at me. He was genuinely confused and had not picked up on my insinuation, which was reassuringly like DaVinci. “Candy’s been telling me about the red-haired woman,” DaVinci said. I nodded. I should have known better than to assume that DaVinci was chatting with a pretty girl for the mere enjoyment of it, yet I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Since Eloise’s death he had become more taciturn and misanthropic than ever. “There have apparently been several sightings of this mysterious woman,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve gathered a few stories about her today as well.”
“Did you see Dooley?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’ll be moving soon—into a padded room. He was raving about the fairy folk.”
DaVinci gave me a sharp look. “He may not be as insane as you think. Tell me everything that happened to you today. When we’re done you and I will examine the grotto.”
I nodded and began telling him about my day. When I was done we dispensed with our plates and excused ourselves. In the entrance hall he took my arm and guided me to the front door. “We need to make a stop at the car,” he explained.
Outside the front of the mansion DaVinci asked me to open the trunk. I did and waited while he rummaged amongst our suitcases and bags.
DaVinci emerged from the trunk with a red cloth bag tied with a white drawstring and his cane with the griffin handle. Before I closed the trunk I grabbed a large flashlight and so armed we walked around the mansion to the back and the grotto.
“Steppner’s records were most illuminating,” DaVinci said as we walked. “This house was the former home of a wealthy industrialist named Flannigan.”
“Flannigan?” I said, looking sharply at DaVinci. “That was the name of our missing Irish boy.”
“Exactly. Flannigan built the house in the early 1900’s and his family lived in it until the late 1950’s. After that they fled their adopted land and returned to Ireland. The house was left to run down until Steppner bought it and restored it.”
“The Flannigans,” I said. “Were they Catholic or Protestant?”
“Neither. As far as I can tell Flannigan practiced a strange form of pagan religion derived from early Celtic mythology. It’s the main reason he left Ireland. He believed that America was the mythical ‘Land of the Dead’.”
“That’s what Seamus called it,” I said.
DaVinci nodded. “It’s also known as the ‘Land of Youth’. These are names for the mythical Celtic Fairyland—the Home of the Fey folk. Traditionally it was believed to be located west of Ireland, across the ocean.”
“Well, you can’t get much farther west of Ireland than California,” I said.
“The Fairy folk were also known as the Danan,” DaVinci went on. “The children of a goddess named Dana. Their stories go far back into Irish history, long before there was any form of writing.”
“So they weren’t like Tinkerbell?”
“No,” DaVinci scowled. “The modern conception of the fairy is a bastardized version of the original idea. In Irish myth unwary travelers would encounter the Danan, be seduced by their music and become trapped in their world. Entrances to the Danan’s land would invariably be found in close proximity to some sort of mound.”
We were at the grotto now. It loomed in front of us in the darkness. I could see the moonlight reflected on the surface of the water. The twin cave mouths yawned darkly at us.
I shone the flashlight at one of the mouths. The water continued on into the cave, but there was a stone walkway leading in. DaVinci and I followed the walkway.
The inside of the grotto was a large space built to look like a natural cave. The pool inside was almost as big as the one outside, but there was also a large open lounge area made up of flat, smooth stone. Sounds from outside came in through the cave mouth and echoed eerily throughout the chamber.
Almost immediately we began to hear something. It began as a formless noise, like a vibrating string that would slacken and then tighten again. Then it began to change and it coalesced into a voice.
“Miles…” the voice moaned. “…where are you…?”
I glanced sharply at DaVinci who seemed unsurprised. He wore a mask of concentration as he tried to pinpoint the voice’s location.
“…Miles…” the voice spoke again, this time stronger. It was clearly the voice of a young man. It could only be Seamus Flannigan.
DaVinci listened intently, moving around the grotto, trying to discern the location of the voice amongst all the echoes. As he moved he tapped the end of his cane against the stones, listening to the sound as it bounced around inside the cave.
“…Miles…” the voice moaned. “…where are you? I’m cold…”
I felt a shiver run down my spine at the far away sound of the voice.
DaVinci merely kept moving around, tapping the stone.
Suddenly she was there. The red headed woman that Leroy had described. One minute I was looking at a stone wall, the next she was standing in front of it, tall and regal. She glared at DaVinci.
“Harlan,” I warned. DaVinci turned and looked her in the eye. He pointed his cane towards her.
“We’ve come to get the young man back,” DaVinci said, boldly.
The woman flashed her eyes at us, and I could see the signs of a sharp Irish temper.
“The young man is blood of our blood,” the woman said in an accent that sounded old—almost Germanic. “He will take his rightful place beside the high seats of kings.”
DaVinci slowly advanced towards the woman, his cane still outstretched. “The man is mortal,” DaVinci said. “He is blood of a mortal family.”
“He has Danan blood. He is the son of the son of Ecne.”
“The son of Ecne knew a mortal woman,” DaVinci said to her. “The issue from that tryst turned her back on the people of Danan.”
The woman drew herself up to her full height. “Do not trifle with me. I am Brigantia, daughter of Dagda, mother of Ecne. The young mortal shall be mortal no more, so long as he is with us.”
DaVinci shook his head and continued his advance pointing his cane in front of him. “The young man must be returned.”
I noticed that the woman would not leave a certain spot on the floor. She was clearly uncomfortable with DaVinci’s cane, but the would not back away from the flagstone upon which she stood.
DaVinci seemed to sense that as well. He got as close as he could. Her eyes blazed with anger, but she stood tall and defiant, never lifting a foot from the stone.
Suddenly there was a splash from behind me. I turned and saw Rusty Steppner running through the shallow water of the grotto. He was wearing a robe and silk pajamas. His arms flailed as he ran to the far wall where DaVinci and Brigantia stood eye-to-eye.
“Take me with you!” Steppner shouted as he splashed.
DaVinci took immediate advantage of the distraction. He had hold of his cane by the griffin head. Now he tossed it upwards. As it came down he grasped it by the haft and turned it so that the griffin head was facing down. He raised it up, then drove it straight down onto the flagstone between the woman’s feet.
I winced in anticipation of the cane shattering on the stone, but it didn’t. The moment the griffin head touched the stone the grotto was suffused with a harsh, white light. A roaring sound echoed round the chamber and I could feel a blast of hot air move past me.
Suddenly we were not in the grotto anymore. We were on an open field under an overpowering dark sky. Steppner suddenly let out a great shout of joy. He was lying on the ground; his robe and pajamas still soaked from the water.
I could hear the sounds of horses racing across the field. The riders all had long, flowing hair. I saw other figures surrounding us. All of them were tall, young and beautiful.
“Now you see,” Brigantia said, her voice a booming noise that rolled over the wide plain. “Look upon the land of the Danan. See the paradise that we can make of your mortal lands. Worship us! Worship us again and live in peace. Or turn from us into chaos despair. The choice is yours.”
“I want to stay!” Steppner shouted.
Among the figures surrounding us I saw a young man with short fair hair. He was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and workboots and an expression of fear and misery. It could only have been Seamus Flannigan.
DaVinci still held his cane with the griffin head intact. He held it in front of him now, as if it could ward off these beautiful youths. The Danan seemed to have a respect for it and kept their distance.
“You can stay,” Brigantia continued. “But if you return, once you set foot upon your own soil, you will be trapped in your own world forever. You will be unable to return to the land of youth.”
“Jimmy,” DaVinci shouted over his shoulder at me. “Grab hold of Seamus. Quickly!”
I did not hesitate. I ran to where the young man was standing and grabbed his arm. He gave me a worried look, but seemed to sense that I was not someone to fear.
As I grabbed Seamus, DaVinci pulled out the red cloth bag and reached inside. He pulled out a fist filled with a white substance and flung it through the air.
It hung briefly in the air before falling to the ground, but the effect was remarkable. The Danan scattered as if they were suddenly under napalm attack. I felt some of the stuff hit me and Seamus and I saw a great clump of it fall onto Steppner who was just climbing to his feet.
It was salt. DaVinci had filled the red cloth bag with common table salt.
“Jimmy! To me!” DaVinci shouted.
Keeping my grip on Seamus I sprinted to DaVinci. DaVinci grabbed me around the shoulders with his free hand and I held Seamus tightly.
“No!” Steppner screamed. He seemed to realize that something was about to happen. He reached up and grabbed the back of DaVinci’s coat. “Stop! No!” he screamed.
But it was too late. DaVinci struck the ground with the griffin head again. I felt a sudden and violent sense of vertigo, as if I were suddenly on a maddeningly spinning merry-go-round, then with a violent lurch we were all four back inside Steppner’s grotto.
“NO!” Steppner cried. He fell back into the water, his body suddenly wracked with heaving sobs.
WE managed to get Steppner out of the water. His raving and shouting very quickly turned into an incoherent babble. We dragged him out of the grotto and I managed to get him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and lumped up the lawn with him.
He was lighter than I’d expected him to be. I suddenly got a sense of frailty and age from him that I had not noticed before.
The girls crowded around us as soon as I was close to the house. They took him from me and helped him inside, handling him with genuine concern and tenderness.
I found DaVinci speaking quietly with Seamus. He was giving the young man his standard ‘Encounter with Supernatural Forces debriefing’. Seamus had the a wide-eyed, shell-shocked look that we’d seen many times before.
I stood apart, waiting for DaVinci to finish. I looked up at the stars. They were reassuringly real. They were distant and cold, but, just like all of us mortals, they would eventually grow old and die.
DAVINCI and I were in the Buick driving north. I would spend a week with him and his daughter before driving back to New York.
We had stayed at Steppner’s until the morning, just to make sure he was alright. He slept fitfully until about noon the next day when he woke grumbling and complaining about a hangover. He did not remember the events of the night before and DaVinci and I said nothing, save to inform him that his Grotto was clean of all supernatural influences.
It had become clear to us that, far from wanting his grotto exorcised, Steppner had used DaVinci to open the door to the realm of the Danan. Because of that we didn’t feel comfortable at the mansion anymore so we spent the night in a hotel and hit the road early the next day.
DaVinci was showing me the still-intact griffin headed cane. “It’s made from pure iron,” DaVinci explained. “That and the salt were enough to keep the Fey folk at bay. The red cloth of the bag would have done it as well.”
“Why?” I asked.
DaVinci shrugged. “It’s metaphorical. Iron represents the passing from Stone Age to iron age. Salt used to be employed as a preservative to stop meat from aging, something unheard of in the Danan’s world. The red cloth is simply a non-natural colour. All of these things were intrusions into the Danan’s universe.”
I nodded. “So young Seamus was the offspring of a Danan and one of Flannigan’s daughters?”
“Yes,” DaVinci replied. “It seems that was the apex of the Flannigan family’s history of Celtic worship. The experienced seems to have frightened the young couple back to Ireland.”
“Right back into the arms of the Catholic Church as well as into league with the IRA.” I supplied. “Poor Seamus. I hope his return will pull Dooley back from the brink. But what about Steppner? He wanted to stay with the Danan, but now he doesn’t remember a thing.”
“The memory of being there and not being allowed to stay was too traumatic. He’s blocking it out,” DaVinci said, staring out the window at the rolling countryside. “Steppner worships youth and beauty. You’ve seen his magazine. He is sitting on the pulse of America and helping to foment a cult of youth and beauty.”
“Would that be so bad?” I asked. I was thinking about the beauty of the Danan world. “What if the earth became like the Danan’s world?”
“Where would there be room for you and I?” DaVinci asked. He shook his head. “Age and wisdom have their places just as youth does. If we praise one to the detriment of the other we will end up in a world out of balance.”
As I watched the road I spied a small cluster of young people on the road, hitchhiking. Their hair was long, their clothes were loose and colourful. They wore beads and symbols and bright, smiling expressions.
But they would age. “‘Youth’s the stuff t’will not endure’” I quoted.
DaVinci nodded and smiled sadly.
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UNNATURAL SELECTION By Laird Long
MALCOLM and I were basking in the warm afterglow of a fine dinner at his secluded country estate. Yet, I sensed a certain degree of uneasiness on the part of my friend of many, many years. He stared at me across the table, swirled coffee around in his fine, bone-china cup, and then announced abruptly, “Let’s go into the study.”
I gulped down the last of my port, and we left behind the carcasses of Cornish game hens, a pair of empty wine bottles, and other assorted shells and husks of culinary delights, and retired to the book-lined study that served as my friend’s office-away-from-office. He carefully closed the huge, oak-paneled door behind me, and then took the unusual step of locking it securely.
