Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 15
“Yes, I’ve got the fax number right here. Ready? Okay, here it is.”
And Maggie provided the facsimile number for the National Library of Wales circulation desk, then hung up the receiver. Before the call, she had been concerned how, even if she obtained access to the manuscript, she would possibly be able to read its Welsh text. Now she was less worried about that. She was certain the telephone call would produce absolutely no results.
She looked at her watch. 5:15.
Time for a drink. And dinner. In that order.
25. The Dragon Rampant
Maggie had always been a sucker for symbols, especially nationalist symbols on flags and coats-of-arms—thistles, harps, lions, fleur-de-lis, and the like—so when she set out in search of a pub for dinner she knew she’d found her place in ‘The Dragon Rampant,’ a congenial looking establishment within view of the university’s Old College and boasting a large wooden sign featuring the red dragon of Wales, only rather than in its traditional on-all-fours position as on the Welsh flag, the dragon stood menacingly on its hind legs, front claws extended forward, and red leathery wings flourishing behind. A quick peek at the front facade of windowpanes confirmed it was well frequented by students, some of whom had already arrived for an evening of dining, drinking, talking or all of the above.
“Just one?” asked the tall, lanky hostess from the bar near where Maggie walked in. The pub was essentially a single large room outfitted perfectly for social interaction. A well stocked bar stood against one wall and an alcove filled with pool tables and dart boards jutted out from another, with light wooden tables wrapped around the dark wooden walls and scattered across the even darker wooden floor.
“Yes, one.” Maggie replied with a smile which almost hid her self-consciousness at dining alone.
“Right, then.” The hostess stepped around the bar, grabbing a menu and stepping toward the tables. “This way please.”
There were probably ten other customers in the pub just then, scattered about the bar and tables. None of them seemed to pay much attention to her as she was led to a four-person table near, but not quite at, a window facing the street. Obviously saving the better tables for larger parties. Maggie guessed it wouldn’t be long before the pub was quite filled; there was already a certain buzz in the air as the day drew to a close and the evening set firmly in.
“Whatcha drinking then, miss?”
Maggie considered for a moment as she accepted the menu and sat down. Uncertain what the offerings might be, she elected to leave her inebriation to the good graces of her hostess and host country. “Beer, please. Whatever the local brewery is.”
The hostess smiled. “All right, then. A pint of Flannery’s.” She took a step toward the bar, then shifted her weight back and turned round again. “Canadian?”
“American,” Maggie corrected.
“Right,” replied the woman. “I figured as much. Well, then: Welcome to Wales.”
“Thank you,” Maggie replied. She was already starting to feel better.
Two pints and half a dinner later and Maggie was downright happy. As expected, the pub had turned out to be quite the hotspot for Aberystwyth’s collegiate residents. Within a half an hour every table had been occupied and the hostess had begun directing arriving patrons to tables with already-dining ones. It was one of those European customs which, while perfectly sensible from both a business and a social perspective, was still so entirely foreign to Americans as to keep Maggie slightly on edge as she waited for the inevitable question from a pair of strangers:
“Are these seats free?”
Maggie looked up at the two young women who were readying themselves to pull up seats at her table. “Of course,” Maggie replied, actually relieved she was no longer dining alone. “Please sit down. And, er, hello.”
“Hullo,” echoed one of the women. She was thin, with fine, shoulder length blonde hair, and wearing a sleeveless yellow blouse and floral print skirt. “I’m Gwen,” she announced. “Gwen Palmer. And this is Susan.”
Susan had thick black hair cropped just below the ears and sported a red shirt and white trousers. She smiled a large friendly smile. “Hullo.”
“Er, I’m Maggie.” A distinctly non-British accent. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you,” Gwen replied. “Are you Canadian then, Maggie?”
“No.” Now it was starting to get irritating. “American.”
“Right.” Gwen smiled. “And what brings you to Wales? Tourist?”
“No, actually,” Maggie was glad to say. “I’m a student.”
“Oh really?” Gwen looked to Susan then back again. “Here at the college?”
“Er, no. Up at the University of Aberdeen actually.” Then she decided she should at least attempt to explain her presence so far south. “I’m here in Aberystwyth,” she only had a small problem with the pronunciation, “doing some research for my studies.”
“Brilliant!” Susan enthused. “And what are you studying then?”
“I’m studying—”
“You ladies know what you’d like?” The waitress had arrived, thoroughly oblivious to the quiet conversation she’d interrupted amid the growing din of the pub.
Gwen frowned at her menu, then asked, quite to Maggie’s surprise and delight, “Cymraeg?”
Maggie recognized it as the Welsh word for ‘Welsh.’ She remembered that much from her single Welsh course—in part because it was similar enough to the Gaelic word for Welsh, namely ‘Cumruis.’
“
“
“
Maggie didn’t understand a word of it. Not even anything that sounded like a cognate with Gaelic. She considered her plans for the next day. Uh-oh.
“Sorry, Maggie.” Gwen returned to English. “What were you saying?
“Uh, right. I was saying that I’m studying Gaelic.” She took a palpable satisfaction in this following Gwen and Susan’s Cymraeg display.
“Are you then?” A large smile bloomed across Gwen’s already pleasant visage. “How wonderful. Isn’t that wonderful, Susan?”
“Oh yes,” the brunette agreed. “Quite brilliant.”
“But I’m afraid,” Maggie continued, “that I don’t know much Welsh. That was Welsh, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, yes.” Gwen seemed suddenly self-conscious. “That was Welsh. Sorry about that, but it’s nice to use it when possible. Keep it alive and such.”
Maggie nodded in understanding. Although Gaelic wasn’t her native tongue, it had been that of her Scottish ancestors. Perhaps that’s why she’d excelled at the northern Gaelic languages, but had showed only minimal interest in their southern cousins, Welsh, Breton and Cornish.
“I did take a Welsh class a few years ago,” Maggie offered. “Did pretty well in it, too. But I don’t remember much anymore. I recognized ‘Cymraeg,’” she offered with a sheepish smile.
“Well, that’s a start anyway,” Gwen laughed. “And I bet your Welsh is still better than my Gaelic.”
“Not likely,” Maggie laughed.
“Ah well, I don’t know a word of it,” Gwen asserted.
“Me neither,” Susan chipped in.
“Well, I suppose there’s probably not much call for it around here,” Maggie observed amicably. “Heck, there’s not that much call for it Scotland anymore either, I’m sad to say. Except on the islands and the northwest coast.”
“That is too bad,” Gwen displayed a sympathetic frown. “All the more reason to keep speaking Welsh, eh, Susan?”
“Quite right,” her friend replied.
“Are you both Welsh, then?” Maggie inquired.
“Gwen is,” Susan replied. “But I’m actually from Man—the Isle of Man. I came here to study Celtic music and ended up learning Welsh as well.”
This point was punctuated by the return of the waitres
s. “
Maggie considered it—the beer was quite good—but decided to let the others catch up. “No thanks. I’m still working on this one.”
The waitress smiled, then returned to the ever thickening crowd.
Looking out into the crowd after the waitress, Gwen appraised first the game alcove, then her fish and chips. She turned to the American. “Do you play darts, Maggie?”
“Darts?” She hadn’t expected that. “Er. I don’t know. I suppose I’ve played them before, but—”
“Are you up for a game?” Gwen stood and lifted both her plate and her glass. Susan followed suit and both looked askance to Maggie. “There’s a board open,” Gwen explained, “and we can set our food on the counter there. What do you say?”
“Eh…” Maggie started.
“Winner buys the next round,” Gwen offered.
“The winner, eh?” Maggie confirmed. She stood up and grabbed her glass. “In that case I’ll be happy to play. There’s no chance I’ll win, and I can hardly turn down a free drink.”
The three walked over to the one open dart board and Susan fetched the darts for them.
“So now, the point of this game,” Maggie quipped over her beer, “is to throw the darts into the dartboard, right?”
Both Brits chuckled at this. “That is it, roughly,” Gwen confirmed. Then she took a dart from Susan and sent it sailing not a centimeter from the bull’s eye. “But there are some finer points.”
“I see,” Maggie replied, duly impressed. “And I just want to confirm: winner buys the drinks?”
“Well,” Gwen started, “perhaps it should be loser buys the round, eh, Susan?”
“Oh, no,” Maggie protested. “No bait-and-switches. You got me out of my chair on the promise of a free beer.”
“And friendly competition as well?” Gwen raised an eyebrow and a dart.
“And friendly competition,” Maggie acquiesced. She took a proffered dart and weighed it in her hand and she squinted at the unfamiliar dartboard too far away. “Although I’m not sure how competitive I’ll be. Let’s keep the emphasis on ‘friendly.’”
Gwen bounced her dart in her hand and leveled an intense glare at the dartboard. A dark smile hardened onto her face. “We’ll see.”
“Uh-oh,” Susan laughed. “Gwen’s into it. We may be here all night, Maggie.”
Maggie smiled and thought of the other plans she hadn’t made that night. “All right with me.”
And it had been all right after all. Although normally a hopeless perfectionist at heart, Maggie knew she had no chance in this particular event and so was able to let go and just enjoy herself. Which turned out to be for the best. Gwen had won every game but one, and that one had been won narrowly by Susan. Maggie, for her part, had finished third—and last—in every game. But she was improving with each round. She was now hitting the dartboard with most of her tosses, a marked improvement from the first game when she had eschewed the colored corkboard for the large white wall behind it. Still, even after a few rounds, the darts which did strike the dartboard had an annoying habit of rooting into areas worth only five or ten points, while Gwen, and to a lesser extent Susan, had trained their projectiles to seek out the twenty-point row, and in particular those sections of the row worth double and triple points.
Oh well, Maggie thought as her last dart of the sixth game struck just outside the circle—next to the five-point row. She’d given it a good try. But it was getting late and she’d already had too much to drink. Time to head back to the hotel.
“Oh, come on, Mags,” Gwen protested, appearing a bit tipsy herself from the rounds she’d been purchasing. “One more game. I’ll even teach you a trick.”
Maggie found herself intrigued. “A trick, eh?”
“Yes, a trick.” Gwen looked sideways shiftily, then draped a secretive arm over Maggie’s shoulder. She handed the American a dart. “It’s not the dart,” she explained. “It’s the dart player.”
Zen and the art of pub darts, Maggie thought as she tried not to laugh. “Okay…”
“You see, Maggie Devereaux,” the confiding half-whisper continued. Susan leaned against her stool and waited patiently. “Most people think you have to learn how to throw a dart.”
“But you don’t?” Maggie deduced, fully amused.
“No.” Gwen shook her head slowly. “You already know how to throw a dart.”
“I do?” Maggie looked at the freshly perforated wall behind the dartboard. “I’m not so sure…”
“What you have to do,” Gwen explained further, “is access the skills you already have and harness them for darts.”
Now that seemed almost coherent. “How’s that again?” Maggie asked, suddenly truly interested.
“Well, you see.” Gwen released Maggie’s shoulder and rolled a dart in her hand. “There’s not much point in learning how to throw a dart. Not much practical in it. It’s not what they call a ‘transferable skill.’”
Maggie laughed and imagined the want-ad: ‘High Tech worker sought. Dart players encouraged to apply.’
“It’s better, therefore,” Gwen continued, “to find something you already know how to do and transfer that to darts.” Gwen looked at her expectantly.
Maggie thought for a moment. “I know how to speak Gaelic,” she offered. Not helpful, she thought, but true.
“Hmm,” Gwen frowned. “That is a good thing, but it likely won’t transfer easily to darts. No, think of something you’ve used to move an object through the air.”
Maggie’s eyes widened involuntarily as she remembered the ancient Gaelic words. ‘Bhaitit inh chaoimraighanh…’ She could see the Dark Book floating up to her hands. Maybe the Gaelic could help after all…
“And use that,” Gwen smiled, almost knowingly, “to guide the dart home.”
Maggie took the dart and Gwen stepped back, leaving Maggie to stare at the dartboard some three meters away. She turned the dart slowly in her hand. It made sense. If she could levitate a book, or a ballpoint pen, surely she could guide a thrown dart into the bull’s eye. And she could probably do it without actually uttering the spell aloud. Her control of the magic had been getting stronger. If she just adjusted the spell slightly…
She looked over to Gwen. Then to Susan. Then to the dartboard, and to Gwen again. Gwen nodded, then her soft smile melted and an urgent seriousness seized her visage. “Go on, Maggie,” she whispered.
Maggie stared again at the dartboard, spinning the dart deftly in her hand. She narrowed her eyes and nodded her head in decision. Then she hurled the dart toward the bull’s eye.
“Five!” shouted Susan with a laugh. “Too bad, Maggie.”
“Oh, darn.” Maggie shrugged good-naturedly and turned back to her companions. There was no way in hell she was going to use the magic in a crowded bar, no matter how many pints she’d had. “I guess I’ll have to keep working on it.”
Gwen laughed too, lightly, and stepped over to slap Maggie gently on the back. “Oh, well. Don’t worry though, Maggie. I know you have it in you.”
Maggie thanked her new found friends and then finally excused herself for the evening, leaving a few pounds for her dinner, and parting with Gwen and Susan amid earnest promises to maybe run into each other some time. As the door to the outside closed and Maggie Devereaux passed the row of windows on her way back to her hotel, Susan MacGowell turned to her companion and asked solemnly, “So, what do you think?”
Gwen Palmer paused for only a moment before answering. “Definitely.”
26. Too Damned Late
The pen flew several inches wide of the poorly sketched bull’s-eye taped to the wall, flying up and over the desk and striking the hotel room wall in a clatter of plastic and failure.
“Definitely,” Maggie observed to herself, “a good thing I didn’t try th
at at the pub.”
The levitation spell had successfully attached to the thrown writing instrument, but rather than guiding it home to its target, the spell had quite noticeably altered the projectile’s trajectory upwards, as if jerked on a string. That might have been difficult to explain to Gwen and Susan.
Maggie stepped over and picked the pen up off the floor.
“
She’d been tired when she’d gotten back to the hotel, but she’d had to try the dart trick at least once, just to see if it would work. That having been ascertained—no, it wouldn’t—she was now ready to put the day behind her and get some shuteye. The morning’s traveling and the afternoon’s walking had settled on her like a heavy overcoat. She felt lucky to have the energy to brush her teeth before climbing between the covers.
The bed was even more comfortable than she could have hoped for. She let her thoughts drift over the happenings of her day. She was beginning to lose control of the images as her mind succumbed to sleep. Somewhere in the Aberystwyth night a car alarm went off. Not too near and not for too long before its owner disengaged it, but it was just enough to pull Maggie momentarily back from the transom of dreams. She rolled over, pulling the sheets to her chin, and murmured in her sleep, “No, I don’t speak Welsh.”
***
‘A is for Alba.’
‘B is for Breizh.’
‘C is for Cymru.’
The alphabet border wrapped itself importantly around the top of the deserted classroom, over the green slate chalkboard, down the side wall, across the rear wall behind her, and back again, repeating its liturgy every 26 characters. The institutional clock over the door set the time at 3:46 and Maggie found herself alone in the small schoolhouse.
The combination chair/desk she was seated at was also small, too small really for a highschooler, and her knees pressed uncomfortably against the underside of the writing board. Atop it rested a thick, edgeworn, ugly textbook, laying open and staring up at Maggie as she hunched over uneasily in the miniature chair. Her foot bounced nervously, driving her knee into the desktop and sending the entire desk-chair into creaking convulsions. This caused the finely printed words in the desk book to blur, further slowing her reading, which succeeded in making her that much more anxious, in turn driving the foot and leg to bounce even more intensely. The school day had already ended. And she still had so much to learn.