The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) (27 page)

The spirits did not answer and Ceridwen began to wonder if
the distraction of her feelings for Arthur Conan Doyle had affected her far
worse than she had first imagined.

"Spirits?" she questioned. "Have you heard my
plea?"

They were still silent, whirling about her, and she was
about to ask them again when at last they spoke.

"Perhaps it would be best if this world were to die,"
they said in unison, and Ceridwen found herself stunned by the response.

Long had the forces of nature on this world been under
constant assault, the dominant species of the planet having no respect for the
heavenly body on which they thrived. Mankind's arrogance and blatant disregard
for its environment was maddening, and she could not help but entertain the
thought that perhaps the spirits were right. Every time that she had set foot
upon this accursed world, she found it in worse condition than the last. Humanity
was killing this place that had once been second only to Faerie in its lush
beauty.

The outcome was surely inevitable. Did it really matter
if this place were to die now or later?
she pondered. Ceridwen could not
even begin to understand how Arthur could have left the world of the Fey for
such a tainted place, but he loved this world of his birth, and had made
himself its protector. It was not her place to encourage its demise.

"No," Ceridwen said forcefully to the elemental
manifestation that surrounded her. "This is not the time or place for such
discussions. There is much life still left in this world and I — as well
as others who share the same thoughts, are not yet ready to allow it to pass."

The elements were quiet, dwelling upon her words.

"Perhaps we were too rash,"
the spirits
hissed.
"Your faith momentarily restores our hope
.
We shall
watch further before this world's fate is decided upon."

"A wise decision," Ceridwen answered, again bowing
her head in respect. "Will you then grant my request?"

The whirlwind began to swirl all the faster around her, the
elements blurring together as one powerful force.
"Take us into
yourself, and in your thoughts, show your destination."

Her former lover's home took shape within her mind as she
inhaled, allowing spirits of nature access to her body.

"Yesssssss,"
they whispered all around her.
"We know this place."

And the winds spun all the faster, shrieking and moaning as
the forces of nature readied to do the sorceress' bidding.

"A traveling wind," Ceridwen said, clutching her
staff of power to her chest, the icy ball adorning it pulsing with a cold, blue
light, the combination of the frozen water and the fire within. "That is
what I ask of you. A traveling wind to take me to the home of Conan Doyle."

"It is but the least we can do for you, child of the
Fey,"
the elements said as they took her within their embrace, lifting
her up from the ground.

"The least we can do."

Danny Ferrick stared with awe into the living room.

The boy had had every intention of going up to bed, to lie
down and attempt to understand what he had learned about himself, as well as
the world in which he lived. In his mind he saw his life, and the world in
which he lived represented as a gigantic rock, its dark, jagged surface covered
in patches of lichen and moss, undisturbed and untouched for perhaps hundreds
of years. But then that rock was flipped over, and something else entirely was
exposed — something terrifying, and yet absolutely fascinating. That was
the real world for him now — the world in which he belonged.

His foot had just touched the first step that would take him
up to his room when he'd felt it. It was like a gentle tug, as if there were an
invisible rope wrapped around his waist and somebody at the other end, pulling
— drawing him toward the living room.

Danny turned. He knew that Ceridwen was in the living room
performing some kind of magickal spell that would take her to Conan Doyle's
house.
Is that what's pulling me?
he wondered as he moved quietly down
the hallway, clinging to the shadows.
Is Ceridwen's magick somehow calling
to me?

He heard voices coming from the room, and by the sound of
it, the woman was not alone. Danny pressed himself against the wall before the
doorway and listened. Ceridwen's voice was beautiful, like the singing of a
song every time she spoke, but the other voice — multiple voices really,
speaking as one, it made the dry skin around his new horns itch like mad and
the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

Danny carefully peeked around the doorframe, not wanting to
be seen. He was going to have his look, and with his curiosity satisfied, go
right up to bed.

At least that was what he had intended.

All that he had seen recently, all he had experienced, it
paled in comparison to what he was seeing at that moment.

"A traveling wind," the Faerie sorceress said
aloud, her voice filled with authority. The air in the room, seeming to have
become almost solid, spun around her incredibly fast, but she remained calm in
the center of the maelstrom. "That is what I ask of you. A traveling wind
to take me to the home of Conan Doyle."

The unnatural wind conjured within the living room of Danny's
home screamed and moaned like twenty cats in heat, and it became more difficult
to see the Faerie sorceress at its core.

"It is but the least we can do, child of the Fey,"
came the voice that set his nerves on edge, and Danny realized that it was
coming from the body of the storm itself, that somehow the whirlwind was alive.

"Awesome," he whispered, transfixed by the sight. His
body shook with the wind, his pants so baggy that they fluttered behind his
legs.

"The least we can do."

And with those final words, the traveling wind spun all the
faster. Furniture and knick-knacks, anything not nailed down, were tossed about
the living room by the powerful winds. Then the woman was lifted up from the
center of the room and carried within the belly of the unnatural storm toward
the ceiling.

Danny could not take his eyes from the sight, watching in
awe as the manifestation of the sorceress' magick began to grow smaller,
collapsing in upon itself. Ceridwen was leaving, being taken away by what she
had called a traveling wind, and he felt the unnatural pull again — the
tug, that had brought him to this room grow all the stronger. He gripped the
doorframe, his clawed fingernails digging into the hard wood as he fought to
keep himself from entering the room. There was a part of him that wanted to go,
to throw himself into the whirling vortex and accompany Ceridwen on her
mission, but that was not his place. According to Conan Doyle, it was not his
time.

The pull upon him was incredible as he watched the twister
compress in size, Ceridwen nothing more than a dark stain at its core. It would
be gone soon, transporting the woman to Conan Doyle's house where she would
gather information to help them take down those responsible for what was
currently happening to the world. And where would he be? Daniel asked of
himself. He would here, doing absolutely nothing, even though he knew that he
was more than capable of helping.

The boy heard Mr. Doyle's hurtful words again echo within
his skull.
"We shall see what your destiny holds, Danny Ferrick. But
not tonight. Not tonight."

"Then when?" he asked aloud, knowing very well if
Conan Doyle's people — his agents, were not successful, things would be
getting mighty hairy for mankind, and he might never be given the opportunity
to show them what he knew he was capable of. This was his chance to truly
belong, to prove that he was one of them.

Danny let go of the doorframe and allowed himself to be
drawn into the room. He felt the drastic change in temperature, and he could
see his breath. He stared up at the dissipating whirlwind, now less than half
its original size, and still he struggled with the idea of what he should do.

"Not tonight,"
the voice of Conan Doyle
said again, warning him away from the thoughts of what Danny knew he should not
be doing. And in his mind he saw himself leaving the room, climbing up the
stairs to his bedroom where he would wait for the others to return from their
chosen missions. This was what he
should
have done.

"Fuck that shit," the boy growled, tensing the
muscles in his legs and leaping up into the air, at the magickal maelstrom. And
he was pulled inside the final vestiges of the diminishing vortex; carried away
from his home upon a traveling wind, eager to confront his destiny.

In the dream, the world of man was hers to command.

Wearing robes of elegant silk, she walked amongst the
garden of bones; the remains of those who challenged her, as far as the eye
could see. They were arranged in the most beautiful of patterns, sticking up
from the poisoned earth, and hanging from barren trees, twirling amusingly in
the fetid winds. The artisans of the Corca Duibhne had outdone themselves, she
thought, admiring the artistry of the Night People's work, creating sculptures
both pleasing to her eyes and filled with meaning. This place would serve as a
reminder to any who would dare to challenge her supremacy. A place to show them
that any hopes of insurrection would be met with punishment swift and terrible.

The mournful winds shifted ever so slightly, carrying the
plaintive wails of the humans left alive to her ears. They were used as cattle
now, a food source for her voracious army. A fate they most assuredly deserved.

And beneath the now eternally nocturnal sky, the sun
forever blotted out by the undulating mist of scarlet red, Morrigan leaned back
her head and basked in the misery that she had wrought. It is only a matter of
time now, she thought, her body beginning to tingle with anticipation, only a
matter of time before the world of Faerie fell prostrate before her, and she
began to cry tears of thanks for what her master had given her.

"It is all I've ever dreamed of and more,"
Morrigan said, her voice trembling in emotion, as she gazed up into the sky. And
something moved there above her, something great and terrible that glided
through the mist filled air, the pounding of its mighty wings like the
heartbeat of a world in peril.

Morrigan lay upon the king-sized bed of Arthur Conan Doyle,
her naked body still covered with the sticky aftermath of the recently
performed blood ritual, still gripped within the fantasy of dream. The spell
that she had woven had been extremely taxing, and she often found that a brief
nap was exactly what was needed for her to retain that much needed edge, and
what better place to rest after the exhausting job of sacrificing two innocent
children, she thought, then upon the bed of your vanquished enemy.

Her eyes came suddenly open, awakened from her blissful
respite by disturbance in the ether. It was like the vibrations felt within the
silken threads of a spider's web; an alarm of sorts, warning that something
could very well be amiss. Morrigan raised herself up on her elbows, gazing
about the darkness of the master bedroom.

The two boggarts, large dog-like beasts lying curled and
content at the foot of the bed until that moment, raised their blocky, black
fleshed heads and sniffed at the air. The animals growled, a horrible gurgling
sound, the loose flesh around their mouths rippling back to reveal angry red
gums filled with razor-sharp teeth.

"What is it?" she asked the demonic beasts,
conjured as a precautionary measure to watch over her while she slept. The two
unnatural animals tilted back their large, square heads, sucking whistling
lungfuls of air into their eager nostrils. They sensed it the same as she, the
faintest hint of a magickal disturbance in the air.

"Come," Morrigan beckoned the animals to her as
she left the bed, and they slunk from atop the mattress to the floor, their
short, triangular ears flat against their skulls in submissiveness as they
stood on either side of her naked form, licking the dried blood of children
from her hands.

She concentrated upon the ripple in the ether, attempting to
discern its purpose, but much to her frustration, could not read it.

"Who would dare such a thing?" she asked aloud,
padding naked across the bedroom to the door, taking some satisfaction with the
knowledge that the two who could challenge her were not present upon this
world, she had seen to that.

Morrigan flung the door wide, startling a band of Night
People who had set up a kind of encampment outside the bedroom door. The
creatures quickly averted their eyes, not wanting to incur the wrath of their
mistress.

"Did you feel it?" she asked them. "A spell
has breached our defenses."

The boggarts started to whine, eager to track the scent of
the invasive magick.

"Go," she commanded them with a wave of her
taloned hand, and the beasts bounded down the upstairs hall, powerful muscles
rippling beneath jet-black flesh, scattering Corca Duibhne and their belongings
in their fury to hunt that which did not belong.

Morrigan followed close behind, fearing the worst as the
eager boggarts descended the stairs, their claws scrabbling across the hard
wood floors for purchase as they made their way toward the ballroom, and her
most treasured possession.

Disturbing images flashed through her mind; scenarios that
rendered all that she had planned moot. She first imagined finding the
chrysalis of Sweetblood shattered upon the ballroom floor, the powerful mage
now free and filled with fury, and then the equally horrific imagining that the
chrysalis was gone, stolen, not a piece to be found. She quickened her pace,
catching up to the dog-like creatures sniffing and digging eagerly at the
bottom of the closed ballroom doors.