Camp Arcanum Page 12

  “Hold tight,” Marc said, “there’s one over there in that oak tree. Can you see it?”

  Though Marc did not look at it directly, he could see it clearly at only ten yards distance. Its skin was mottled brown and the same texture as the bark beneath it. Its gigantic green eyes were the same color as new leaves. It clung to the trunk, head-down the way it came, and stared at Marc and Brenwyn.

  “I do not see anything, but I know that there is something there,” said Brenwyn. Her lips curled into a knowing smile. “Definitely a tree spirit. It is curious about you.”

  “And I am curious about it,” Marc said matter-of-factly. He made some final adjustments on the paintball marker, working by touch to avoid drawing attention to it. “The best way to satisfy your curiosity is with an empirical experiment.”

  Marc snapped up his arm and fired three times. A red splash of paint erupted across the oak tree from the tightly packed cluster. Part of that red splotch peeled off, shook itself and ran squealing up the tree.

  Pandemonium broke out as hundreds of unseen creatures in the treetops retreated in a panic. The branches shuddered and leaves fell in a whirlwind of activity.

  Marc spun like a top trying to keep the creatures in sight. He held his right hand with the paintball pistol up near his head. He had a sudden, unpleasant vision of a hundred screaming bark-monkeys all diving straight at his face. Brenwyn stood with her head tilted to one side as if she were listening to something intelligible under the chittering.

  “Perhaps that wasn’t the brightest idea,” he said.

  “In case you have not guessed,” Brenwyn said, “they are a bit upset.”

  “Really?”

  “More confused than offended I would say,” she continued, ignoring his sarcasm. “Fortunately, they do not seem to have the temperament to hold a grudge.”

  After a few seconds, the commotion settled down.

  Marc holstered his pistol and called out to the treetops: “Sorry, guys!”

  Marc walked over to the oak tree and inspected the paint splotch. There was a silhouette of the tree spirit blocked out of the middle of it.

  “That’s it!” Marc exclaimed. “I’m not crazy. Hallucinations don’t block paint.”

  Brenwyn looked sincerely concerned

  “Usually, spirits do not do that either,” she murmured. “This is something beyond my experience.” Again, she looked as if she were listening to signals from the trees.

  “Great,” Marc said. “I felt better—for about ten seconds.”

  * * * * *

  Marc stepped out of his trailer and surveyed the darkening sky. Light clouds painted broad red bands across a field that ran from deep blue to green to pink. End of October, sunset came by six-thirty, and there was the promise of a cold, clear evening.

  Hell of a night to be dancing naked around a bonfire, he thought.

  That wasn’t going to be his problem tonight. He had his black jeans, turtleneck, and leather jacket to keep him warm. All Marc had to do was make sure no one burnt down the forest tonight. And maybe not have any of Brenwyn’s coven brand him as a perverted Peeping Tom.

  He turned back and locked up the trailer. As he did, Marc caught his reflection in the window. His hair was brushed, his face and teeth were clean, but he still had three-day’s worth of beard stubble. He’d debated with himself whether he should shave all the way to skin for the first time in perhaps twenty years. He ultimately decided that would leave him looking well groomed, but just a bit desperate. He zipped up his best leather jacket and climbed down the three steps of his tiny front porch.

  At the bottom, Marc noticed Eleazar coming out of his own trailer. The rennie was wearing heavily ornamented vest and trousers, a white fencer’s shirt, and embroidered leather vanbraces at the cuffs. There was a large camera with flash hanging around his neck.

  “I’m ready for the big evening, milord!” Eleazar chirped.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Marc asked sharply.

  “To the witches’ ball and bonfire, milord,” Eleazar replied. “I was invited, after all.”

  ”From what I remember,” Marc said through clenched teeth, “you were invited if you brought your wife.”

  Eleazar wasn’t fazed.

  “’Tis bad manners to bring a screaming weasel to social functions,” said Eleazar. “It only goes with red meat.”

  Marc gave up on that argument.

  “And what did you plan to do with the camera?” Marc asked.

  “Oh, just take a few candid snapshots.” Eleazar was trying his best to look and sound innocent. “Maybe put together a nice little scrapbook for the ladies as a remembrance, don’t you know?”

  “This is a religious ceremony for them,” Marc said. “Would you get in the middle of Easter Mass at St. Peter’s and start snapping away?”

  “If there were naked nuns . . .”

  Marc closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

  “This is not going to happen,” Marc said. “That’s it.”

  “Are you concerned about my seeing Brenwyn naked?” Eleazar seemed honestly concerned. He held his right hand up in an approximation of the Boy Scout salute. “Catamount’s honor, I will only look at the other naked witches.”

  Marc’s fists clenched on their own. The muscles of his neck followed suit. Hell, he could feel his spleen tightening up. Forcing himself to unwind, he counted under his breath. At “seven”, he came up with a plan. He pulled out his wallet as he spoke.

  “Look, Athens is about an hour and a half away from here. The whole city’s the wildest Halloween party in the state of Ohio. There are going to be thousands of drunken co-eds for you to chase.” He handed Eleazar a twenty. “Use this for gas.”

  Eleazar took the bill with a sideways, cunning glance.

  “That will get me there,” Eleazar said, “but it won’t get me back.”

  “Here.” Marc gave him another twenty. “Thank God I’m feeling charitable. Just be back and ready to work by seven a.m. tomorrow.”

  Eleazar folded the currency and slipped it into the leather pouch on his belt.

  “Now, if I use this money to get one local woman drunk,” Eleazar asked, “do I have to give the remainder back?”

  “Just go,” Marc said. “I want to have trouble remembering your face this evening.”

  Eleazar saluted theatrically and spun on his heel to make his exit.

  “Gone and forgotten already, milord.”

  Eleazar disappeared around the corner of the trailer, clicking together his heels at a height of three or four feet.

  It seems that I’ve made at least one person happy this evening, Marc thought. Now he needed to get a shovel and fire extinguisher from the tool barn so he could play Smoky the Bear to the witches of Darke County. Maybe, that would make them happy, too.

  Chapter 11

  Samhain Night

  WHAT HAD SEEMED LIKE A BROAD, dirt highway when he was behind the wheel of the Bobcat earlier looked like a narrow tree-lined tunnel in the dark as it wound uphill towards the clearing. Strange music, drums and flutes, drifted through the foliage. Marc hiked up the pathway, moving slowly both from caution over his footing in the dark and the burden of the twelve-pound extinguisher. Besides, he didn’t want to walk into the middle of Brenwyn’s party without some initial reconnoitering.

  The golden light reflecting off the trunks told him that the bonfire was already burning. As Marc peeked over the rise he could see one or two dozen people around it. He guessed that this was Brenwyn’s entire coven. Most were dressed in sweats, jeans, or parkas, entirely mundane but warm clothing. They stood talking, gathered in knots of two or three. No mad pagan bacchanal, yet, more like a wine and cheese party outdoors in the cold. The small band of musicians must have been on the far side of the fire; Marc could still hear them, but saw only glimpses through the flames.

  Some few brave souls on this side of the fire wore sheer shifts or robes. With the firelight shining through their clothes, they
might as well have been naked. Marc quickly looked away, inspecting for dry, flammable leaves beneath his feet.

  When he looked back up, he saw a small group of older women at the fringe nearest Marc. Crones, he remembered they liked to call themselves. They were closely wrapped in dark cloaks with bare legs in sandals peeking out from underneath. Occasionally, they nodded or gestured towards the candle-lit tent on the far side of the circle. It was nothing fancy or exotic, just green nylon fabric ten feet on a side, something you might find at a church camp. Feminine silhouettes were cast on the inside of the fabric by the flickering light. Marc felt his heart start to race and he chose not to go down that road again. He slung his shovel on his shoulder and veered towards the knot of crones.

  “Good evening, ladies!” he called out to them. They turned their attention to him in unison, like a flock of ducks spotting bread on the water.

  “Look it’s the Marseilles Mafia,” said one woman with a long fall of silver hair spilling over the dark, coarse wool of her cloak.

  “No, I’m just trouble-shooting tonight,” Marc replied, “not shooting trouble.”

  One woman wearing a cloak turned towards Marc. She pulled down the hood as she did. A familiar head of grey hair like steel wool glinted in the firelight. Her heavy horn-rim glasses reflected two circles of flickering flame.

  “So, who are you going to whack with that shovel?” Musetta as always, sounded amused by him.

  “Musetta?” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

  “He just didn’t think,” the woman with the silver hair said. “It’s a man thing.”

  A thin old woman with a crescent moon diadem spoke up:

  “He’s pretty enough. Who needs a brain?”

  A black woman who stood in Musetta’s shadow gave the others a gentle warning:

  “Ladies.”

  Musetta smiled at the woman and turned back to Marc. She encompassed the clearing, the bonfire, and all the pagans with a gesture.

  “Everyone who is anyone in Arcanum wants to be in Brenwyn’s coven,” she said.

  “I see.” Marc wondered who might be under those cloaks: the mayor, the sheriff, the entire staff of the county courthouse?

  The black woman leaned forward into the light, placing a proprietary hand on Musetta’s shoulder. She looked to be in her late fifties with a face more handsome than pretty. Her skin was a deep, mahogany brown, her close-cropped hair almost white. Her expression was as knowing and mischievous as Musetta’s.

  “Before you say anything else,” Musetta said, “I’d like you to meet someone. This is Stella, my life partner.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Marc extended his hand and Stella clasped it with both of hers. She cocked her head to one side as if she were listening to the sound of the pulse in his wrist. Without releasing him, she smiled at Musetta.

  “Everything you told me about him is true.”

  “And what is that?” Marc asked.

  Stella only put a finger to her lips.

  “I know, if I have to ask . . .” Marc sighed.

  The gaggle of old ladies dissolved into discrete giggles.

  “You, Musetta, are the one I should whack with the shovel.” Marc pointed an accusatory finger square at her chest. “If I’d bumped into you the day after the marathon, I just might have.”

  “I warned you.” She didn’t seem at all intimidated.

  “No, you dared me.”

  “And you were stupid enough to fall for it?”

  His mother would have described Musetta as looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. He was the one losing his cool here, threatening to hit someone’s grandmother with a shovel.

  “Well . . . yeah.” That was the best response that came to mind.

  He was about to launch another verbal volley that might redeem some shred of his dignity, when three young women ran past him. He’d seen them before at the movie marathon and on the streets of Arcanum. Amber, Ivy, and Crystal, Brenwyn called them: the girls who did everything together. Running must have kept them warm, because their clothes definitely couldn’t. Amber, Ivy, and Crystal were wearing only yards of sheer silks that merely colored the bodies underneath, concealing nothing.

  They paused for just a moment to look him over and whisper among themselves. Then, they were off to someplace on the far side of the fire, giggling, wiggling, and bouncing as they ran. They bounced a lot.

  If Brenwyn really could read minds, he did not want that to be on the top of his. He turned away and looked to the skies. There were only three constellations he remembered: The Big Dipper, Orion the Hunter, and Andromeda—the naked girl chained to a rock . . .

  Oh, well.

  “What,” the crone with long silver hair asked out loud, “he doesn’t like girls?”

  “Maybe he’s shy,” said the diadem wearer.

  “He’s a gentleman,” Musetta stated firmly. “A rare breed.”

  She stepped in close, within shovel range. She must have trusted him again. “Would you like some advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “Eye color.” She said this as if it were profoundly important and complete self-explanatory.

  “Anything more?” Marc asked, trying not to drop any lower in the crones’ estimation.

  “Concentrate on eye color and you won’t be so distracted by a woman’s other . . . attributes,” Musetta explained. “You can try hairstyles, too.”

  Marc snorted before he could stop himself.

  “If I paid attention to women’s hairstyles,” he said, “the naked bodies wouldn’t bother me.”

  The crones giggled again. He seemed to have their tolerance and affection, if not their respect. He could live with that, but he was hoping for more from Brenwyn’s closest friends.

  He set down the fire extinguisher and flexed his hand: it had started to cramp from his gripping the handle of the cylinder too tightly. No tension here, he thought.

  “Will you be joining the circle tonight?” Musetta asked.

  Marc held up his free hand. “I’ll sit this one out.”

  “You are always welcome,” she continued. “You can even keep your clothes on.”

  The other crones made sounds of deep disappointment.

  Stella moved forward and took the opportunity to wrap one arm around Musetta’s shoulders. They pressed against each other the way he remembered his mother and father had.

  “I know it’s hard for you to believe,” Stella said. “If you were to approach this with an open mind—”

  Marc interrupted her before she got too far into what sounded like a prepared speech.

  “My mind is wide open. It’s because I am beginning to believe that I want to stay outside,” he said. He was mildly pleased to discover that not all the witches of Arcanum were omniscient. He filed that away for later analysis. “I don’t want to spoil your circle with my dirty old karma.”

  The long-haired crone opened the top of her cloak and playfully bared one bony shoulder.

  “Maybe so many beautiful naked women intimidate him,” she pouted.

  “Feather, behave yourself,” Stella warned.

  He expected that the younger witches would be willing to go naked, but he assumed the crones wouldn’t be doing the same. Most of his female relatives of that age wouldn’t wear shorts if strangers could see their spider veins.

  “You’re all going—what’s that phrase—skyclad?” he said, trying not to sound too dismayed.

  Musetta grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

  “You can tell me my eye color after the ceremony.”

  “Okay,” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. Marc picked up his fire extinguisher and walked away. Only when he was on the other side of the bonfire did he allow himself a little shiver of horror.

  The crones giggled, not so discretely then.

  Marc set down the extinguisher under an oak tree at the edge of the clearing. He set the shovel blade-first into the ground in front of him. Leaning on the shovel, Ma
rc surveyed the site. He wanted to work out this ceremony without asking too many dumb questions. And, of course, he wanted to be prepared for the next disaster.

  There was a large circle marked in the grass with torches and chalk dust. That was about ten to fifteen feet from edge of the firepit at all sides. Though the group maintained an atmosphere of a wine and cheese soirée, little knots drifting from place to place, all of them were very careful to step over the line on the ground without disturbing it. He could see a small gap in the chalk circle, maybe two feet across at the spot nearest the green tent.

  Marc again looked at the tent and the women’s silhouettes thrown against the walls. Overlapping shadows and curves in motion implied all sorts of things while revealing nothing. Marc watched for several moments, despite his best intentions. One of the crones passed nearby and caught his eye. Her expression was indulgent and sympathetic.

  Marc felt a surge of guilt, as if he’d been caught watching scrambled porn on cable. There were a lot of other things here tonight that needed watching. Like the fire; it could collapse or surge upward and catch the adjacent trees on fire. He studied the burning stack of logs and the patterns of wind and smoke for a long, long time.

  Somebody blew out the candles inside the tent. Though Marc was most definitely not looking at the tent at the time, he noticed the change in the light immediately.

  The coven noticed just as quickly. Conversation and music fell silent as if turned off by a switch. Everyone watched as Brenwyn emerged from the tent.

  She clutched a green velvet cloak trimmed in fur around her throat tightly. Her dark brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders and down past her breasts. The firelight made it glisten red. As she walked to the gap in the circle, Marc could see she was barefoot, though she also wore silver toe rings. Her belled anklets jingled with every step. She wore a silver diadem that flashed in the firelight, ornamented with a disc and two crescents to symbolize the phases of the moon like Michael’s drawings of Egyptian goddesses.