World Gathering: Magic, Mensa, and Mayhem
By Karina L. Fabian
Copyright © Karina Fabian 2006 – 2007
Episode 1: Conventional Calling
Most people expect blessings when a Bishop walks into their homes, but after 800 years of working for the Faerie Catholic Church, I was a little more suspicious. “Tell me you’re here on a social visit, Your Grace,” I pleaded as I bent over his ring. I didn’t kiss it, of course. Dragons don’t pucker. My partner, Sister Grace, a High Mage of the Faerie Catholic Church and a human, did those honors and gave him a hug as well while I pulled up an office chair for him.
“Business, I’m afraid,” he said. His eyes strayed over to the television, which was playing the opening scenes of Galaxy Quest. Fr. Rich, our priest and a good friend here on the Mundane side of the Gap, assured us that after 5 years of watching Star Trek DVDs, we were ready to appreciate it.
I switched off the television with my tail. Guess we’d have to wait a little longer.
Bishop Aiden smiled his thanks. “You do not have any cases currently, I hope?” As he asked, his hand slid into his pocket. At first I thought he was fingering his rosary, a habit of his, but I heard his thumb brush against paper. Slick paper. Mundane paper. Curious.
Grace and I shared a glance that answered his question. Even after seven years of successful work, even after saving the world--both of them--on an all-too regular basis, we still had long periods when we’d welcome a missing animal case. When it comes to the private detective business, a dragon and a mage from the Faerie world are the first ones you think of when magic is involved, but most Mundanes would rather have one of their own otherwise. Guess I can’t blame them. Imagine hiring a 12-foot quarter-ton dragon for a discrete investigation. And of course, we’re limited to morally upright cases. Try doing that as a PI. All in all, it can be hard paying the rent, and if it weren’t for free meals at Natura’s restaurant and my herd of Faerie cattle (a payment from Princess Galinda for a simple case that turned into one of those save-the-universes things), we’d be dining out in the local trash bins--not that our neighborhood has much to offer.
How could a dragon, one of God’s greatest creations, get himself into such a state? Two words: Saint George. The Faerie one, not yours. See, Faerie dragons are immortal. Yeah, I’m serious. Well, George--God bless him, the magically overpowered pain in the tail--got the brilliant idea to trap me in a holy spell. He worked magic on me until I was not much more than a good-looking Gila Monster and then laid a geis on me, a real doozy: If I ever wanted to regain my former glory, I had to earn it back through service to God and Man through the Holy Catholic Church. I’ve been a faithful employee ever since.
I’ve done it all, from Pope’s pet to agent of the Inquisition (ours, not yours) to scribe to plow horse for the monks, which was what I was doing when the Gap between our worlds opened. Don’t ask how--the short version sounds like a comic book plot, the long version would require doctorates in sub-quantum physics and High Magic to understand. The point is, for the first time, I felt a Calling, and it led me here.
Where I was totally unappreciated by your government, thank you, and ended up having to eke out a living as a private detective for the particularly desperate.
Of course, I was still an agent of the Church, and Bishop Aiden was my superior. Not that I minded much; he respected my independence more than many of my former bosses. He’d only called upon our services a handful of times, and usually the need was dire.
He pulled out a brochure and handed it to Grace. I peered over her shoulder.
“Mensa World Gathering,” she read. “What’s Mensa?”
“It’s a club for persons of high intelligence.”
“You should fit right in,” she told me.
“I’m not a ‘person,’ remember? Ask the US Department of Immigration,” I growled. It was still a sore point with me. Both Grace and the Bishop ignored it. She just flipped through the brochure while he smiled.
“Nonetheless, you are going. Both of you. Their international organization has invited a number of Faerie citizens--humans and Magicals--and we feel someone should be there to make sure nothing gets out of hand, supernaturally speaking.”
Grace beamed, but I saw where this was headed. “Hold on. You want us to be chaperones?!”
“Nonsense. You are welcome to enjoy the conference. Simply, be available in case things get out of hand.”
“Oh, right,” I said sarcastically. “Supernatural Hazmat. So much better. We’re not getting paid for this, are we?”
“The Church will cover your travel expenses, convention fees and accommodations. All Faerie citizens will be staying at the same hotel as the convention. It’s in someplace called DisneyWorld; I’m told you should fit right in. Grace, we’ve arranged for you to speak on the theological and stylistic differences between Faerie and Mundane religious music.”
Some days I hated Aiden’s insight. Grace had come to the Mundane world on sabbatical to study your music and circumstances had kept her here with me. He knew she’d love the chance to share her research, and that I would support anything that made her happy. “What about me?” I asked grudgingly.
“Actually, you’ll simply accompany Sister Grace.”
“I’m a sidekick?!”
“We thought it best that you be free to move about the convention as needed,” he said blandly, then rose. “I must be off. I promised Fr. Rich I’d join him for lunch before Adoration. Someone will get you the details within the week.” He made the sign of the cross over us and strode briskly down the long open stretch of the warehouse that was our office and home.
I resisted the temptation to blow a stream of fire at him. I definitely had to go to Confession now.
Knowledge of Eternity, Wisdom of the Ages, and I get to be the sidekick and a babysitter at a Smart Humans’ Convention.
Episode 2: Pixies in the Program
“Oh, Vern, why are you so hacked? This conference looks like a gas.”
I didn’t bother to answer. When Natura made up her mind about something, there was no arguing with her. Instead, I opened my mouth and poured half a bottle of Kingfisher into it. Not that beer can get me drunk. It takes about five gallons of ethanol to do that, and now that I’ve got my fire back, it’s not the smartest idea. One wrong belch and I could make a dragon-sized hole in the pavement.
Beside Natura, Bert Logan took a pull from his beer and rolled his eyes at his wife’s vocabulary. They made kind of an odd match. Natura had never left the Sixties, while Bert had “bought into the Establishment” at an early age and was sheriff the first couple years I lived in Los Lagos. She’d been a believer in “free love,” while he had never even dated. He’d had it bad for her, though, so bad, he actually came to me for advice once.
The only experience I had with human courtship was someone stealing my lunch and my treasure, poking me in the side while he was at it, mostly in a show of over-polished testosterone. I told Bert he was on his own.
Glad he got it figured out, though.
He leaned closer to his wife to look at the program that Grace and I had brought to go over as we ate. It was “Hindu Night,” and Grace loves Natura’s dahi wado.
“I gotta agree with Natura, Vern,” he told me. “That polygraph lecture looks interesting.”
“I want to go to that one,” Grace said, carefully wiping a piece of fallen rice off her habit. “We have a spell for compelling the truth based on the Eighth Commandment, but detecting the truth has always been trickier. People can make themselves believe the most unlikely things.”
“We’ve had the same problem,” Bert started, but I cut him off.
“It’s not the Mundane speakers I’m worried about.” With one claw, I pointed to the Friday 10:30 lecture.
“’Helreið Brynhildar--Bryndhildr’s ride to Hel. Faerie Valkyrie Brunhilde talks about her near-death experience in this magical multimedia event.’” Natura read. “Like, wow!”
I was not so enthusiastic, but Grace merely shrugged. “We just have to tell her to keep it to sound and visuals. She’s surprisingly reasonable.”
I grunted, not willing to be comforted. “And Goes-on-Verbose-Soporific of the Eternally Long-Winded? They actually list him as keynote speaker for the closing dinner.”
“That’s ‘Gozonvabosomofic of the High Winds Eternal,’” Grace chided lightly.
“Wanna bet?” Gozon was the Speaker for the Forests of one of the largest clans of elves in Faerie Ireland, once a great warrior, now a scholar and always a pontificating airbag. And this is among elves, who being long-lived, are also long-winded. In their native language, it takes half an hour to ask where the bathroom is. And I know from experience that Gozon’s never been able to figure out Human, no matter how many human languages he’s learned. Folks attending his speech risk missing their flights home, and I mean the ones scheduled for next day.
“We’ll figure something out,” Grace said, though she, too, looked concerned.
“Hey,” Bert said as he pointed at the program with a folded piece of flat bread. “’Elvis Meets the Dalai Lama!’”
“Not ours,” Grace and I chorused. Elvis was one legend that didn’t parallel in Faerie.
Bert shrugged and wiped sauce off his chin. “You know, Vern, it’s a shame they aren’t letting you talk. If nothing else, you could talk about life in an alternate universe.”
“Title’s been taken.”
“Oh, look! One of the Muses is going to be at the poetry workshop.” Natura’s delight dissolved into confusion at the look on Grace’s face. “What?”
Grace shrugged. “It’s just that Kalliope is a notoriously finicky editor. Lots of ‘happies’ to ‘glads.’ And of course, she’s always right. Compose a poem with a Muse and it’ll be perfect, but, well, it’s not yours anymore.”
“Like the individual voice is lost… Bummer. But--wow! Look at this. ‘Erotic Photography--A Practical Guide.’”
Her husband almost choked on his flat bread.
“Oh, Bert, don’t be so conventional. It’s art.”
“Yeah,” he managed to gasp. “Amazing how many teenage boys discover art.”
Natura elbowed him. “C’mon Grace, go and take notes for me? It’s celebration of the beauty of the human body.”
Grace held up her hands. “The only body I celebrate is Corpus Christi.”
“Vern?”
“Forget it. To me a human without clothes is like an apple without its skin.”
Bert looked confused, but both ladies groaned and explained:
“They both lack appeal!”
Bert’s eyes went wide and he downed his beer in quick swallows.
Episode 3: Coronado Conundrums
Grace shoved the key card into the magnetic lock with an angry jerk. As soon as the light glowed green, she pushed her way in and flung her suitcase on the bed, opened it, and pulled out some of her work items. I slunk in behind her.
It had been a long day of playing tour guide, security and babysitter, but we were finally at the Coronado Resort in Disneyworld. The Faerie who had presentations were with the convention coordinators. The other Faerie were in their rooms. The Selkie were in the lagoon. And I was in the doghouse.
Shouldering past me, Grace stuck her various medallions, relics and potion ingredients in the room safe, locked it and placed her hands over it, muttering a spell to activate her "Karma shield." The wards mentally attacked any intruder in direct proportion to the evilness of intent. I hoped we wouldn't need to be looking up any psychiatrists this trip.
Finally, she whirled on me. "You know, we expected trouble on this trip, but I thought it'd come from the other Faerie!"
"It wasn't my fault!"
"First, you intimidate the front desk clerk--"
"All I said was a smoking room was fine!"
"No, you said, 'As long as I can smoke with it.' Then you gave him The Grin."
"It was a joke! It got us a nonsmoking room, didn't it?" I tried and failed to hide my smirk. Grace hates the smell of American tobacco.
"Uh-huh! He was so scared he couldn't do his job properly until you left. Five hours I spent alone trying to keep everyone under control and check them all in, while you took a nap by the Lagoon!"
"Who had the brilliant idea to put the water Magicals in the lagoon, huh? Besides, you're the one who told me to take Gozon. He just kept droning on and on about how misunderstood he's been among his clan of late--150 years 'of late.' It wasn’t a nap. It was hibernation defense! And it wasn't a picnic for me, either."
"Oh, right!" She flung up her arms. "The family! Couldn't have handled that better, could you?"
“The guy stuck a kid on my back! What was I supposed to do?”
“Ask him to take him off?”
“I did! Twice! The idiot just kept going on about animatronics and asking where Leno’s cameras were.”
“Fine, fine! But did you have to pick the poor child up with your tail?”
“You'd rather I’d bucked him off? I’m not double-jointed,” I snarled defensively. “Kid was having the time of his life ‘till his mom started screaming. In my ear. Where she’d been trying to stick the quarter. You want my opinion, I should be getting praised for my restraint.”
"Well, what'd you expect? We're at an amusement park resort."
"Who would put a dragon ride in a hotel with a Southwest theme?"
Grace gaped at me a moment, then burst out laughing. With a loud groan, she fell back on one of the beds. "This is going to be the toughest job we've not gotten paid for," she sighed.
I curled up on the king-sized bed. I wonder whom they'd displaced to get it for us. I hoped it was Gozon, though it was probably the Selkie, like they'd be interested in anything but the bathtub. "That's what you get for having a sidekick."
"Speaking of, 'Sidekick,' we're going to need to watch out for Siegfried. He's insisting on wearing 'traditional dress.'"
I sighed. Related to the Siegfried of Viking legend, "our" Siegfried believed he had been born out of his time. Although a scholar by trade and temperament, he nonetheless liked role-playing his ancestor as much as he did talking about him. On the airship here, he'd kept a low profile, wearing modern Faerie clothes and trying to learn a few phrases of English. His only nod toward his obsession had been to make cow's eyes at Brunhilde. Now, however, he seems to have decided to come out of the ancestral closet--wearing their clothes. Wonder if there's a RenFest in town we could ship him to. "Well, he's got the muscles for it," I said.
"And the broadsword. I had to make him put it away before the desk clerk had apoplexy. Sped things up, though. It's not that. I heard a couple of bellhops snickering. 'What's in your wallet.'" She parodied their accent.
Great. Of all the bellhops in all the hotels, we had to get the ones who actually like American Express Commercials. Next will be circus and tiger act jokes. "Let's be thankful he's not good at languages."
"And for this room," she said, spreading her hands across the double-sized bed. It was pretty ritzy by our standards. She sighed and pulled herself up. "And, since my order does not have any proscriptions against luxury, I am going to enjoy it, starting with a long hot bath. What're the chances everyone will stay quietly in their rooms tonight?"
"About the same as their all staying in the passenger areas on the flight over," I growled pessimistically. The airship, a half-blimp, half-plane, had been perfect for accommodating the various sizes and needs of the Magicals. Unfortunately, with folks free to move around--and even a private cabin or two--it was hard to keep track of everyone. So, naturally, someone took advantage of that to go through the stored luggage. He, she or it left no clues, so Grace and I concocted a story that turbulence had jumbled things and for folks to report to us if anything was missing. (The "turbulence" was provided by Yours Truly. Most fun I'd had all day.) In the meantime, we knew we'd have to stay alert for trouble.
"Enjoy your bath. I'll take first watch." I put on a clean vest from my luggage and transferred into its pockets the tools of my trade: lock picks, "official" PI identification, and the stealth charm Grace made for me after watching a documentary on the B-2.
No way was someone putting a kid on my back again.
Episode 4: Helper Elf Hullabaloo
There’s nothing like a bloodcurdling scream to wake you up in the morning.
The scream in question was coming from another wing--Gozon’s I guessed from the direction of the sound--but by the time I’d thrown myself out of bed, the screams had morphed into vows vengeance, so I relaxed. No one had been murdered. Yet.
When I got to the room, Grace was already there, checking for magic. A security guard was rolling his eyes and shooing people from the scene, but I just gave him The Grin, and he paled and let me pass.
“What’s the problem?” I asked as I moseyed into the room that was a smaller version of ours.
“The problem?! This is the problem!” shouted a pajama-clad male Caucasian with thinning blond hair. He had his back to me, and the momentum from the theatrical sweep of his arm he used to indicate the room spun him until he was facing me. His rant died in his throat.
“Calvin, this is my partner, Vern.”
I gave him a tamer version of the grin I treated the security guard with then looked around the immaculate room. “Something’s missing?” I ventured.
“It’s not that! Everything’s… organized!” Losing any fear of me in his rage, he stormed to a drawer and pulled it open. The shirts inside were folded more neatly than for a Macey’s Grand Opening. I glanced at the open closet, where the pants and Bermuda shorts were similarly neat.
My imitation of human facial expressions must be getting pretty good, for he glowered at my bemusement. “I’m color blind! Before I left, my wife packed everything in coordinating outfits. Now I have to get someone to help me match everything. And then there’s this--“ He shoved a puzzle magazine at me. Magic Squares.
“I know Soduku is the new thing, but I happen to enjoy these. But someone’s gone and filled them all in--wrong!”
Grace offered to help Calvin get his clothes coordinated while I perused his book. At first glance, it did look like numbers were filled in at random--every number was less than 19, some were fractions, some even had letters. Mishmash.
If you were using a Mundane number system.
Calvin took one of the outfits Grace picked for him and ducked into the bathroom to change. Grace went to work on the rest. “Well, it’s definitely helper elves, but why would they come to this room?” she asked.
“And who brought them?” Helper elves could be all but invisible. We never saw any on the airship, and none had been on the passenger list.
“Who?” Calvin asked as he came out of the bathroom in a pale blue collared shirt and navy Dockers. He reached into the closet for his shoes, then sat on the bed to put them on. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at the sole of his clean and polished loafer.
“Broken before?” I asked.
“Just starting to tear. I noticed it at the airport. How did you know?”
“You, my friend, have had the privilege of living a fairy tale. While you slept, the wee folk snuck into your room and cleaned. They even repaired your shoes--and probably anything else that was broken. They even finished what they thought was your work,” I told him as I tossed the Magic Squares book on his bed.
“But it’s all nonsense!”
“Actually, it’s a legitimate numbering system--and one you’re familiar with, though it’s far more complex than the one Mundanes use. You like a good mental challenge, right?”
Grace and I left him with a closet of neatly pressed coordinating outfits, a charm to keep out any future “assistance” and a grin on his face as he dove into his puzzle book, scribbling in the margins and trying to work out the number system.
Neither of us were grinning as we made our way down the hall. Faerie helper elves would not be at this convention on their own--someone would have brought them. That meant that someone would have ordered them to “clean” that room.
Somehow, I couldn’t believe it was a random act of kindness.
I said as much to Grace, speaking in Faerie Gaelic against curious ears of the Mundanes poking their heads out of rooms or passing in the hall. She sighed and replied in kind. “It gets better. There was a mix-up in room assignments yesterday. That room was supposed to be Gozonvabosomofic’s. I checked: there’s no trace of harmful magic or substances, and Calvin is sure nothing is missing. Seems to me that they were directed to the wrong room and, as long as they were there, did what comes naturally.”
“Except Gozon doesn’t like helper elves,” I protested. “In the centuries I’ve known him, he’s never once allowed someone else to handle his stuff. Neurotic, that way. See?” We were passing by his room. In addition to the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, Gozon had put up a simple security spell. I did a quick listen, but there was no one in the room, High Elf or helper. “Breakfast?”
“Him or for us?” she teased, then turned back to the problem. “Remember how neat the luggage was in the airship? The purser only knew it was tampered with because everything was re-arranged. No one’s reported anything missing, either. So Calvin’s room wasn’t just cleaned--it was searched?”
“Looks like it. So we’re back to who and why.” I twitched my tail in annoyance.
More work we weren’t getting paid for.
Episode 5: Top Chef Trouble
After patrolling all night only to be awakened by the screams of an angry human and discovering that helper elves have been sent to search people’s luggage for reasons unknown, I was looking forward to a nice, quiet lunch. Naturally, I was denied that.
If you ask me, that should go under “mortifications of the body.” Unfortunately, no one ever asks the dragon….
We’d just entered the con café, an elaborate affair this year thanks to the special guest, Jean Pierre de Pasimmonierre, a human chef from Faerie Southern France. The banquet tables were loaded down with food fit for kings--better than our local Duke in Faerie got, that’s for certain. Diners were packing the tables and there was a line from the banquet table to the door.
Nonetheless, I smelled him even before I saw him. Polo cologne might be enough to fool humans, but with my nose, there’s no mistaking the smell of dog. “Let’s go--“ I started, but it was already too late. His nose was as good as mine.
“Sister Grace! Vern!” he shouted as he approached, smiling like a Labrador and trailing, as always, a couple of happy ladies. He wore tight leather pants and a black t-shirt, over which he’d tossed a dowdy tweed jacket. His membership button sported a green “hug me” sticker.
Coyote, the trickster of Native American legend and North American Faerie reality. My week just got worse.
“What are you doing here?” Grace tried not to sound accusatory. Despite the fact that she, too, wore a green sticker, she backed up a step.
I wasn’t so polite. “Why aren’t you in a Montana jail where we put you?”
He gave us his best whipped-dog look. “I’m out on parole. Good behavior. The reservation adopted me and I’ve dedicated myself to alleviating the plight of my people.” One of his groupies sighed.
I was losing my appetite. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“I’m a Mensan--and a panelist. Hug me!” At his yell, several people around us jumped up for a group hug.
Yep. There went the last of my appetite. “What panel?”
“’Thinking Outside the Box,’ of course! But you’re here, too! Now, I saw that Sister Grace is on a ‘Magic in Music’ panel, but what about you, Vern?”
“I’m not.”
“Oh, just Grace’s sidekick.” The ladies on his arm giggled.
“I’m working,” I replied, making sure my tone held just enough threat that he knew he’d better not cross the line. At the end of the banquet table, I heard Jean Pierre talking to a man with a Midwestern accent.
Fortunately, a pack animal like Coyote was good at picking up signals. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just here for some…intellectual…stimulation and pursuits.” He waggled his eyebrows at his friends who didn’t so much giggle as titter.
At this rate, I was going to be off my feed for a week. Fortunately, Jean Peirre chose that moment to let loose a blistering torrent of top-volume French.
“Excuse me, I’d better see what’s up,” I said to the ladies.
Grace acquiesced to a quick hug from Coyote and (after checking the pockets of her robes) followed.
By the time we got to the table, Jean Pierre was screaming about hot dogs and chips and the insults to his nation while a tall thin human sporting a tan cowboy hat and western wear and holding a cooling steak on his plate just stood there sputtering. Jean Pierre grabbed his chef’s hat and was about to throw it--a traditional challenge in Faerie France. I snaked my tail around his arm and stopped him before he could drop it. “What’s going on?” I said in as amiable a tone as I could.
“Tex” couldn’t drop his mouth open any wider, so he just paled at the sight of me. I was relieved that he didn’t drop his plate. It would have taken the intercession of the Faerie Pope to stop an international incident if he had.
“This, this Mundane--!” Jean Pierre spat the word. “He insults my art! He dares to dictate to me--me!--I, who have cooked for Popes and Kings!”
“All I said is I’d like my steak cooked a little longer.”
“Do you hear?!” Jean Pierre shrieked. The blood vessels were throbbing along his forehead and his eyes were wider than could possibly be healthy. He sneered up at “Tex,” who, despite having six inches and 70 pounds on the chef nonetheless shrank back. Smart man. “What would you know, you leetle man, with your fast food, oversalted and overcooked and bound by ze rules of fear! I come to free--yes, free!--your palates, but no!”
He whirled on Grace, suddenly entreating, his accent thickening faster than cold gravy. “Zey test me, Sister! I, who lived in ze tradition of ze d’Pasimmonierres; I, who learned at ze side of his own father, who cooked for Popes and Kings--yes, they test me! Zey feed each other swill, yet zey test me on temperatures and hand-washings and fighting ze BAC! If zey want to fight, zey have come to ze right man! I am Faerie! I am French!!”
In the silence (except for the muffled snickers) that followed, Grace tried to sooth the fiery French Faerie. I released him and placed my tail on “Tex”’s shoulder and led him away to the patio outside.
“Look, all I was saying is I like my steak well done. Always have. I didn’t mean any insult.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I assured him. Meanwhile, chemical processes were going on somewhere behind my stomach. “It’s cultural differences. While the Mundane French fought about religion and government, the Faerie French were fighting over how much pepper to put in the sauce. They had a whole war over desserts. Now, how do you like your steak?”
“Well done. Little crisp on the edges.” He was looking at me funny now.
“Give me your plate and stand over there.”
A minute later, I handed him back a flame-broiled steak, well done, crispy on the edges. “Courtesy of Dragon Eye, P.I.,” I said with a flourish. “But from now on, may I suggest you curb your tongue and stick to the chicken?”
Episode 6:
Sum-thing in the Winds
Curiosity got the better of me, and
I went to Coyote’s panel. As usual—and
I say this grudgingly, no respect intended—he was witty and charming and had
everyone eating out of his hands.
Didn’t scratch once, either.
Must have mixed a little flea repellent into that cologne of his. I had a vision of him as the spokes…thing…
for some major flea meds company.
I was glad I went, though; someone asked him about the ancient Indian gods. I chose that moment to clean my claws, and he took the hint and told the truth about the relationship of Faerie Native American spirits to the True Creator. He left with more groupies, but no cult followers.
The convention area was more crowded than I or my tail were comfortable with, so I decided to wander the halls and try to sniff out any clues about our curious friend (and yes, I intended the double entendre).
Problem with helper elves who are told to clean is that they’re, well, clean. Antiseptic, even. Ever tried to follow the scent of “clean” in a busy hotel? Good thing my sniffer is used to esoteric smells.
Unfortunately, none of them were house-elf.
I’d given up and decided to try PI Investigative Method 2: ask obnoxious questions and make a menace of myself. I found Grace in the dealers’ room.
“Up for some Good Cop/Bad Cop?” I asked her.
I heard a snicker and gave the offender—Coyote, didn’t it figure?--my hardest stare. There were some entendres I don’t intend, and that joke wasn’t funny even when I was human.
Don’t ask about the time I was human. I still wake up shaking.
“So who’s the suspect?” Grace asked as we headed back to the rooms. As we passed the lobby, we saw two employees with a conventioneer mangling the pronunciation of something. I caught something like “oh, horror,” accompanied by nasal snickers and dismissed them. Oh, the horror, indeed. Pitiful.
“No suspect,” I told Grace, “but I think Gozon has something to do with this. Those elves were after his room, and he’s established way too many protective spells, even for a pompous paranoiac like him. It’s just a hunch, but maybe if we get him talking, he’ll spill something.”
“Just remember I have a panel at 10 tomorrow,” Grace said.
We rounded the corner to Gozon’s wing and saw an Elf heading in the other direction. Not Gozon, but someone I knew from way back. “Galendor!” I called.
He stopped as if jerked, then turned and smiled. “Vern!” he called, and as he crossed the hall toward us, continued, “Oh Great Wyvern, Fellow Citizen of the Golden Land, Land of Magic and Beauty, Where the Eternal Winds blow gentle on the softly blooming meadows of Caraparavelenciana…”
He managed to make the greeting end as we got within hand-shaking distance. I’d always admired how Galendor could weave Elvish courtesy and Mundane expediency. Class all around. “Galendor, this is Sister Grace Ann of Our Lady of the Miracles, High Mage of the Faerie Catholic Church, Cantor of Little Flower Parish, She Whose Voice Graces Liturgy and Weaves Magic, and My Partner. Grace, this is the husband of Princess Galinda Tavendor, Galendor of the High Winds Eternal.”
“Of the Forests,” he added, bowing over Grace’s hand.
Grace and I exchanged glances. Gozon was a member of the High Winds Eternal of the Shores. In normal circumstances, it was impolite to make the distinction to non-Elves; to do so was one step away from breaking off diplomatic relations.
“Galendor, it’s only been 115 years. Are things that bad already?” I asked.
He smiled. “I am sure it will all be resolved soon. Let us speak of more pleasant topics. You are here for the conference, then? Of course, they would welcome one of your vast knowledge, your phenomenal wisdom garnered over ages of keen observations—”
“Actually, I’m here to babysit the Faerie,” I grumbled. This was starting to get embarrassing.
His laugh was sympathetic. “Well, you need not worry about me, my ageless friend. My Galinda keeps me well in hand.”
“What are you two doing here, anyway?”
“It is an amusing tale I hope to pass on to our children's children. Oprah, that efficacious, distinguished beauty of the Mundane feel-good television, asked us to be guests on her show about ‘cultural differences and the modern couple.’ Galinda was quite eager to accommodate so influential a personality of Mundane society, and while there, we met a Mensan and her husband, and they invited us here after the taping. It was uncomfortably last-minute; but as we told that portent lady of the limelight, such differences bring excitement into a relationship already burning strong in its passion.”
That explained why they hadn’t traveled with us. Galinda could afford her own personal jet, and she loved things Mundane. I remembered that. I also knew that, nice as this hotel was, it was a little below the station of a Faerie princess, even one with a penchant for slumming. “You’re not staying on this floor?”
“No. I was supposed to meet Kevin at his room, but I’ve gotten turned around somehow. In fact, I should probably be going. You know Mundanes and time…”
Before he could begin an Elvish version of good-bye, which takes about 15 minutes, five when speaking “Mundane”, I interjected. “Listen, Galendor. I’m sure you know by now that Gozonvabosomofic of the High Winds Eternal of the Shores is a guest at this convention. I expect you to behave.”
His jaw set, but he gave me a courtly bow. “Vern, Great Wyvern , Defender Against Evil,
Conqueror of Mysteries, you who once saved my life, the life of my bride, and
our very worlds! In gratitude for your
selflessness, your valor, and your friendship, I shall exercise the utmost
restraint if confronting this…representative of the High Winds Eternal of the
Shores.”
We spent the next 10 minutes saying good-bye—or rather, he saying a formal Elvish “see ya,” while we nodded. In the back of my mind, I was adding things up.
And the sum of it was trouble.
Episode 7: Interrogation and Incarceration
When we left Gozon's hotel room, the summer sun was setting and our stomachs were growling. We headed to dinner in silence until we were well away from Gozon's door. Once we'd turned the corner, Grace let out a sigh and rubbed her eyes.
"Am I misunderstanding, or did he tell us, 'You're not elves, so MYOB?'"
I grunted.
I won't bore you with the full details of our interrogation; we were speaking in High Elvish, and it would take a week to read. Here's the Dragon's Digest Condensed Version:
Dragon: (Busting in and sniffing around, snarling, tail lashing.) "OK, Gozon. What trouble are you hiding and why did you have to bring it to a Mundane convention?"
Nun: (Placatingly) "Vern. Calm down. We still don't know--"
Dragon: "Yeah, right, we don't! We got house elves searching his old room, Galindor 'of the Forests' poking his Tolkien-y nose around. Something's up, and I want to know what it is and how to stop it--and I don't want to be here past dinner, or I may have to start snacking." (Looks at Gozon meaningfully.)
Nun: (stepping in dragon's line-of-sight) "Easy. Gozon may be the victim here. If so, we have a duty to protect him. I'm sure if there's something going on, he'll tell us if we give him the chance--"
Dragon: (circling past nun) "There will be a victim if I don’t find out pretty fast why my 'cushy assignment' is being messed up by a mystery. If this turns into a Save-the-Universes thing…"
And so on. The important thing to note is that we didn't let Gozon so much as sputter until we'd gotten the message across that 1) Something weird was going on, 2) We knew Gozon was involved and 3) We wouldn't tolerate any Faerie trouble. His response was 1) How dare you dictate to a "Grand-Muckety-Muck" of the High Elves? 2) Mind your own business and 3) You'd better keep trouble away or you'll be sorry.
Our part took about an hour. His took four.
Now I sighed. "Guess I should have known better; in his youth, he took on the Dark Elf Evalakkiduznogud and his tribe in single combat--"
"So he said. In great detail," Grace muttered. "Wait a minute--if it's single combat, why say 'and his tribe?'"
"Dark elves cheat. Point is, he's not just a formidable politician, but a warrior. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by an undersized dragon and a nun."
Grace smiled. "Yet we did get out of there before dinner."
"Yeah! We did." Grace always did know how to cheer me up.
Dinner, of course, cheered me even more. We piled our trays with dePasimmonierre 's fantastic faire and settled ourselves on the porch, where we got swarmed by tourists. Not that I hadn't been attracting attention all weekend, but now, most people were getting comfortable enough with Faerie presence that they saw me as a novelty and not a threat. Finally, Grace cast a kind of anti-glamour around me, and folks wandered off.
Sure, there's a dragon over there. Is that a big deal?
"So what did we learn?" Grace asked. "Gozon's hiding something. That's certain. That place is warded tighter than the Vatican vaults--and you know what's in there."
I shuddered. "Whatever it is, it's good for his tribe or for him. Probably both. He's actually pleased Galindor is here, too."
Grace picked at her food. "Vern? How bad could a war between the elves get?"
"Remember that Pixie battle you zapped into ancient Egypt?"
"Not I, but God. I was merely His instrument," Grace demurred. "Modesty aside, I do not want to take responsibility for one of the Ten Plagues."
"Yeah. Well, that was a minor turf battle. And High Elves don't transform into locusts."
"You don't think Gozon is looking for a technological edge?"
I thought about it, then shook my head. "Wards can't fool my nose. Other than that expensive briefcase of his and that Armani suit, there's nothing Mundane made in that room."
"Maybe he's meeting someone?" Her eyes strayed over to where a short stocky foreign military type with enough rick-rack and ribbons to stock a fabric store sat flirting with Brunhilde. She easily outmassed him three-to-one, but I guess all those medals made up for that. Still, the whole scene was what our friend's kids would call "sick and wrong on so many levels."
But not on the one Grace was considering. "Nah. Think about Gozon's speech--very focused on himself. Even the semantics indicated a personal rather than tribal insult."
"He did mention the war." She repeated back a five-minute phrase about the impending conflict and how his people would turn to him. Just hearing it again opened up a new level of meaning. I'd have to parse the entire thing tonight to get the real message.
Just then, a hotel employee approached us. He stared at us, mouth gaping, trying to figure out exactly how to politely address a Faerie Wyvern no doubt, then finally settled upon. "Uh…the police just called. They have a dwarf they arrested--he said you'd bail him out?"
Oh, yeah. Cushy assignment. If you don't count the hyper house elves, dwarves in detention and an egotistical Elf who sees Armageddon as a good political move.
And we're not even getting paid.
Episode 8: Disney Disappoints Dwarf
“Come on,” I said,
and led our wayward dwarf to the hotel bar.
Grace had already bailed him out and given him a lecture he wouldn’t
forget, no matter how many drinks he had in him. But he looked like he could use one, anyway.
I glanced around. The Faerie had pretty much taken over. Pixies, elves of all shapes and sizes, a couple of demigods, even a nymph who was gazing at a fake tree with a mixture of infatuation and confusion. About the only human I saw was Galinda, who was seated at a table near the door and delivering a blistering lecture to her husband. Galendor nodded mutely. Looked like trouble in paradise. I decided to MYOB, especially when I saw Brunhilde in a corner booth getting cozy with Coyote. Maybe Bishop Aiden should have hired Ann Landers.
Kent, the dwarf, didn’t speak until after he’d had his first drink.
“I was seventeen when the Gap first opened,” he said. “Been working the mines since I was twelve, yet even then I knew I was destined for something…more. Then about a year ago, I was topside with some buddies…and I saw it.”
Yep. Lord of the Rings strikes again. Did he really think there was a great epic adventure awaiting him on the other side of the Gap?
“They’ve Been Discovered,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “This episode, a bus driver in a local talent show got a recording contract. Mother Lode, Vern, do you what that meant to me? People breaking free from their ordinary lives, becoming something else. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
“Acting is in my blood, but let’s face it: how much opportunity is there in dwarvish theater? The Day We Struck Gold, When the Diamond Mine Went Dry, Perriman’s Pickax. I was stifled! You’ve no idea what I did to get this far, the hours of research, the money I invested to perfect the look, but I’d seen my chance and, by Perriman’s Pickax, I would take it.”
“You were hoping to get discovered at Disneyworld?”
“I did my research. They’re into movies, television, theater, music. The Mouseketeers. I went there, intent on giving them my best performance—“
“And you didn’t immediately get arrested for busking?”
He snarled and quaffed his beer. “Would that they had, but they just told me to leave. So I went into the park, thinking perhaps I could find my way to a studio. Vern, they treated me like a sideshow! Children pulling at my beard, people laughing and pointing. I tried to perform my soliloquy, and they asked me to sing ‘Hi Ho!’ People asking me if I was dopey and when I finally lost my temper, they laughed called me ‘grumpy.’”
“That’s from -“
“I know what that’s from!” He slammed his empty glass on the bar. “I have been typecast enough. I want roles of substance.” He hollered for the bartender to bring him another and brooded, staring into it as if he could find his answers in the gold beneath the suds.
A
pixie flew up to the bar, sat on it, and ordered a whiskey sour. The bartender apparently had been working
for a couple of nights and was used too such things, because he brought out a
regular-sized shot glass, with a thimble for dipping. “You’re not alone. These Mundanes, they clap at us and say, ‘I
believe!’ What’s to not believe? We’re
staring them in the face, we are!”
“Peter Pan,” Kent and I intoned.
“Peter’s joke? Which one’s Peter?”
Galendor appeared at my other side. “If I get called ‘Legolas’ one more time…” He sighed and ordered a martini.
“At least that’s a character of some depth,” Kent grumbled, “and much loved by the ladies.”
Galendor drained his martini, closed his eyes and blew through his lips. Then he turned his attention to the dwarf. “Exactly my trouble, friend. What about you, Vern? You got used as a toy ride.”
“But you know what the worst of it was?” Kent suddenly cried. He was on his fourth beer in less than half an hour and even with Coors, a dwarf was bound to feel its effects. “You know what the worst of it was? The manager, he said I wasn’t convincing! I wasn’t convincing as a dwarf!” He banged his head against the bar and let it rest there.
He continued in Dwarvish. “Maybe I should take Garn up on his offer and go down to Australia. He’s got the rights lined up on a Faeriemet mine. The way the market is, a dwarf could make a good living, retire early. Garn’s not so bad, you know? A little obsessive about that ax of his, but I mean, we all got faults. We all got faults. Faerimet mining’s good work. Money’s good…I could start my own theater…”
I caught Coyote looking at us while Brunhilde was occupied with scratching behind his ears. I couldn’t help but glance down and notice his foot tapping a happy rhythm. He grinned at me, then turned to lick her hand.
It was getting embarrassing in here. I pulled up my balmy dwarf with my tail while I paid for the drinks. “Come on, Kent. I think you’ve had enough. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“’Not convincing.’ Vern, dood—do you know how I’ve studied my art? I bought a TV/VCR and the complete collection of ‘Act Now! The They Were Discovered Complete – complete! – Acting Course for the Hopeful Thespian.’ You want convincing? Lish-listen to my Eliza Dolittle.”
I dragged him out as he launched into “Henry Higgens.”
Episode 9: The
Magic in Music
“Here we are,” Grace said as we stopped in front of
the conference room door. She looked at
the note in her hand. “’A panel
discussion on the magic in music moderated by Mensan Shirley Starke of Valkyrie
Publications.’”
“Who else is on the panel?” I asked. I switched her harp to my side closest to the wall so it was out of the way of passers-by.
“Grace McCarthy!”
The voice was pure music, yet came off like a deodorant jingle.
Grace’s face froze. Then she forced a tight smile.
“Euterpe, dear.”
The Greek Muse Euterpe looked every bit as you’d expect her to. Her long silvery blonde hair didn’t have a strand out of place and when she flipped it--as she often did--it made a subtle sound like harp strings played at just the below the level of human hearing. Her eyes were large and gray, her skin flawless, and her figure of--pardon the pun--Classic proportions. Her smile was as tight as Grace’s. Both ladies wore Green dots on their buttons, yet neither moved.
Good thing. Judging from the tension between them, any embrace was going to be a wrestling move.
Euterpe did her flip-thing--C resolving to A minor. “Why, look at you! Here! Still a nun! I suppose that should be expected. Always the serious type, preferring an ethereal God to a real man. Just as well, I’m sure. But why, oh, why did you choose an order with such dreadful colors? And they’ve made you hide your hair. I suppose that’s for the best, but why?”
“My beauty is in the Grace of God. But you, Terpie! Looking same as always.” Grace’s false sincerity was like nails on a chalkboard and she clutched her cross tightly. For a moment I imagined them as dragons, circling and hissing with wings half-unfurled. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or intervene. I decided to compromise by clearing my throat. Yeah, I know. How Mundane.
Terpie’s eyes flew to me and her face assumed a pout usually reserved for looking at guinea pigs. “Oh, look! It’s carrying your harp!”
Now it was Grace’s turn to intervene. “And you brought your lyre. Still stringing it with your own hair, too.” Then she added to me, “It helps her get a good tone.”
The Greek Spirit of Music’s face tightened a notch, and Grace pressed her advantage. “I haven’t heard any new compositions from Brandon lately.”
Again, Terpie’s grin seemed just a bit more strained, but all she did was run her fingers through her hair--four octaves of C. “Yes, well. It will be such an interesting panel--for them, of course. And yourself. Coming?”
“I’ll catch up.”
“You always did. Toodles!” She waved her fingers in the air like a sorority wanna-be and sauntered into the conference room.
Toodles. Somebody studied the Faerie Book of Mundane Slang. I turned to Grace, who was muttering a prayer for strength. I waited until she was done, then handed her her harp. “Sure you don’t want me to go with you?”
“What? No. We could both do with knowing more about Mundane forensics.” She smiled a genuine smile, though there was still a little strain in it. “I’ll be fine. Terpie and I were in college together and we…have a history.”
“College? What’d she study?”
“I never said she was a student.” She sighed and muttered, “I told him she was bad for him in the long run. He had talent. He didn’t need a Muse.” Lost in her thoughts, she went into the room without saying good-bye.
Grace was right about the Forensics lecture. There was a lot of good information, enough for me to drive Captain Santry mad with suggestions when we got back, which was worth the trip alone. Nonetheless, I decided to corner Bryant at another time and left during the Q&A to be at Grace’s room before her panel was done.
I got there just as people were filing out. The Faerie were talking and chuckling, but the Mundanes were silent. Stunned, even. So stunned, they simply filed past my six-foot, quarter-ton scarlet-and-black bulk without even a glance. I finally heard one guy say in a hush, “That was…” and his friend, “Yeah.”
After the last person emerged, zombie-like, from the room, Grace came out. Her habit was rumpled and her wimple askew. Some of her red hair was singed. Wisps of smoke escaped from her harp case.
She was smiling with satisfaction.
She straightened out her habit and tucked in her hair. “How was the Forensics lecture?” she asked as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The doors opened, and Euterpe came out, her saunter gone, clutching a section of her torn peplos with one hand and holding a harp with two snapped strings in the other. Her hair looked like she’s been to a hairdresser on drugs. Her eyes looked black and smudged--I hadn’t realized she wore make-up. Her expression was somewhere between shocked and seething, but as soon as she saw Grace, she straightened and shook herself haughtily. Her hair, appropriately, played B-Flat and became perfect, as did her makeup. Her dress repaired itself. Again the two smiled their insincere smiles.
“It was so good to see you,” Grace volunteered first.
“Oh, we simply must do this again sometime,” Terpie oozed. “But let’s not wait another 10 years. I’d just cry to see you with more wrinkles.”
Grace held out her hands. Terpie took them, and they did a half-hug/air kisses.
“Please tell Poly I pray for her.”
“I’m sure that’ll mean as much to her as it does to me. Toodles!”
I peeked into the
conference room. Sitting at a harp was,
I assumed, Ms. Starke, her expression as dazed as those of her fellow
Mundanes. She kept staring around her
as if expecting to see something other than the usual disarray of a used
conference room, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Unless you could sense magic. The arcane aftermath was enough to make my scales stand up and my lips curl back.
“Harp music,” I heard Ms. Starke mutter. “I just wanted to talk about Faerie harp music.”
I turned to my partner, my question obvious in my expression.
“I think Terpie had an interesting time,” she said gaily.
Episode 10: Decent Proposal
Grace was tired
and so was I, so we hopped one of the little golf carts that took folks to the
rooms. Grace smiled at the driver and his buddy, climbed into the backseat and
muttered in Gaelic, "the commercial quoters." I grunted and steeled
myself to hear them sing "Puff the Magic Dragon" or something. They
remained quiet however, except when one would mutter, "O horror," and
the other would laugh. It seemed a private joke, so I ignored them.
As we passed
Gozon's room, the door opened and Brunhilde stepped out, carrying a large
exercise duffel and wearing a long, silky bathrobe and high heels. Our jokers
slowed down to gape, then burst into song, "Oh, Bwuunhiwlda! You are so
Wuuuuv-weee!" She tittered and waved.
Grace clutched
her cross. I knew she was thinking about what we hadn't seen more than what we
had. "She and Gozon are adults--and nonhuman," I muttered. She
nodded, but I knew it was hard for her to accept non-humans flaunting their
different moral obligations. Each species had its own sins as defined by God
and taboos set by their society. Wasn't my place to question--and Grace knew it
wasn't hers.
Still. "But
does Siegfried know?" She replied in Gaelic.
I shrugged and
set my tail on her shoulder. "Let's not borrow trouble. We're in enough
debt already." She set her hand on my tail and nodded.
She'd moved on
to other things by the time we'd reached our room. "I should apologize to
Shirley," she said as she set her harp in the closet. "It really
wasn't fair to her that we got so…enthusiastic."
No sooner had
she stepped toward the door than someone began pounding on it.
"Please! My
seminar is coming up in half an hour!" Our knocker brushed past Grace and
dumped his portfolio bag on the bed. The briefcase, I noticed, looked almost
exactly like Gozon's--did the store have a sale or something?
More
interesting, however, were the photos littering Grace's bed: men and women in
suggestive poses, wearing traditional Faerie dress. The clothes were skillfully
but obviously added in after the photos were taken. The captions read Melchoir
Rawling Art Studio.
Looked like the
brownies had found the Erotic Photography lecture.
Grace pursed her
lips. "Interesting medium."
"Medium,
smedium! Those…" He flipped his hands.
"Brownies."
"--Brownies
have painted clothing on all my nudes! My art! It's just too much to process!
Deep breaths! Deep breaths! Please, tell me you can remove this, this
violation!"
Grace faked a
sigh. "I can't." She didn't say she was sorry.
He pressed his
fingers to his temples theatrically. I thought he was going to start crying.
High strung,
this one was. But since I'm a nice dragon, I said, "Mel, babe. Deep
breaths. You need to change your perspective. Work with me: what if you don't
think of them as ruined art? Think of them as trend-setting expressions of
social repression using an unexplored combination of medium, flaunting the
modern Mundane's rebellion against morality and enticing viewers to experience
the seductiveness of modesty."
Grace's jaw
dropped, and Rawling glared at me from beneath his hand. I tilted my head
compellingly. "You'll be a pioneer. 'Daring juxtaposition of primitive,
yet radical gestures.'"
We watched as
his face moved through expressions of anger, doubt, uncertainty and then the
joy of discovery. "You're right! What a commentary on the base impulse of
the masses incapable of appreciating a culturally promiscuous environment where
the body is art! You're genius!"
He gathered up
his photos, muttering artsy commentary to himself, and all but flittered out of
our room.
When I nodded
that he was well out of earshot, we hooted with laughter. "'The
seductiveness of modesty'?" Grace laughed. "Some days, you still
amaze me."
"Sister,
some days, I amaze even myself!"
Many thanks to Lisa Mladinich of New York City for tips in art-critic-speak.
Episode 11: Would
Schrödinger's Cat Eat Quantum Brownies?
At
dinner, I found Grace in the con café with Shirley laughing together and
speaking in conspiratorial tones. Nonetheless, I heard Shirley murmur to Grace
how Melchoir Rawlings was clasping his briefcase to his chest like a long-lost
love.
Her own handbag, with looked like a Cheshire cat, with the tail as the handle and one stretched hind leg as the flap, was sitting on the table. My nose and magic sense caught something unusual about it. As I approached, I told her. "You know that thing's alive, right?"
"Thank you for noticing," the purse said wryly.
Shirley stroked the
top of the cat bag affectionately. "I got it from the Interdimensional
Internet. KamiKrafts. I thought it was a cute play on Shinto animism. I had
fill out an adoption certificate and everything. I didn't know it was a real
adoption. I brought him for Grace to see."
"So she can let the cat out of the bag?" We were speaking in normal voices now, so my comment drew a combination of groans and applause. Even Coyote, halfway across the room, raised his glass in salute. Then he ruined it by lapping out of it, dog-like. I know he did it just to annoy me.
Grace just signed longsufferingly. "No, we did think this might be the answer to our brownie dilemma. We leave kitty in a mess in an out-of-the-way area, and…"
I grinned. Finally, something that showed some promise. I asked the purse, "You sure? You may end up spending a lot of time in a corner for nothing."
"Like I haven't done that before,” the bag cat replied. “It'll be the most fun I've had in years. We'll have to do something to mask my true nature, though."
"Any way to make it look like Melchoir's briefcase? Maybe give it an elf 'scent'?" I asked.
Grace said, "You think they're targeting Gozon's?"
"If not, they have an odd un-brownie-like affinity for expensive leather attaché cases."
"Well, I can do it easily enough. But where shall we put it? We need someplace public enough to attract their attention and private enough that no one notices them."
"Why?" Shirley asked. "I realize that no one's actually seen the brownies in action, but why not just set up a messy room and trap the brownies when they come to clean it."
I tried to explain. "Brownies are interdimensional beings. They can only be in our dimension when in motion, but they're only in motion when they're not seen by someone of our dimension. Even a surveillance camera observing them is enough to cause them to cease moving--and thus cease to exist in our space-time."
"Kind of like electrons, then?" Shirley said. "Not literally, but in the fact that we can know where they are or we can know where they're going, but not both simultaneously?"
"It's a little more complex. There's also magic and uncertainty involved. If you know they're in a spot, they aren't. If you suspect they are and can suspend your certainty, they can remain there--or maybe not."
Shirley laughed. "Now we're talking about Schrödinger's cat. Except in this case, we're going to use the cat to catch the quantum elf. I'm so glad I came to WG this year! Say, what about behind the convention registration table? No one will bother with it, and it's a mess! Plus, it's not an especially busy area now."
"Great." Then, despite myself, I yawned.
"Sorry."
"When's the last time you slept?" Grace demanded.
I shrugged and tried not to snarl. "I tried, but someone has given out our room number and everybody wants their picture with The Dragon." Like that would be proof of anything in this day of PhotoShop and (cringe) animatronics.
"I have an idea," Shirley said. "The Everglades aren't too far from here if you fly. Maybe you could find a nice quiet spot?'
Warm, humid and no humans? This woman knew how to make my day.
She reached into her catbag and started pulling out stuff: sheets of music and scrap papers with notes--musical and handwritten--on them, lipstick, candy... No way the Brownies could resist this purse. She finally found a map and showed me the park. It was huge; as long as no one tried to follow me, I should have not trouble finding a secluded spot for a well-deserved nap.
Grace took
Schrödinger the Cat bag to get catalyzed. Afterward, Shirley would drop off the
purse alone, so as to not arouse suspicion. "Pursey" would take a
nice long nap, flap open, and hopefully, our do-gooder brownies would rise to
the bait.
Episode 12: Shee-oot! Lookit That Thar Dragon!
As I made my way to the Everglades--flying high
enough that the casual observer would mistake me for an odd-looking eagle or a
bat with insomnia--I filed all the annoyances of the weekend: Gozon and his
mysterious speech, Galendor's coincidentally timed appearance, Brunhilda the
vamping Valkyrie, Coyote--there was an annoyance I wished I could file away
permanently. I savored the irony of the brownies making a mess of people's
things while trying to clean them--only in Mundane--and, God forgive me, I
savored the thought of Grace getting into a magical cat fight with
"Terpie." I really wish I'd have been there to see it.
I found the national park with no trouble and
selected a nice secluded spot for my nap. It was a little damp for my tastes,
but in the heat of the afternoon, the tepid water felt refreshing, and after
scaring off anything stupid enough to get in my way, I settled down among the
reeds for a snooze. I did devote part of my attention to keeping tabs on my
environment, however. Mundane fauna didn't recognize dragons as a natural
predator. My size might deter most of them, but I didn't want to take a chance
on some alligator or puma with delusions of grandeur thinking I'd make a nice
lunch.
Of course that also meant that half an hour into a
very nice nap, I became aware of humans talking. Two of them had mouths so foul
that if they'd been on television, the conversation would have sounded like
this:
"Whoa! What the (bleep) is that?"
"(Bleep) if I know. (bleep) (bleep). Let's
(bleeping) stay the (bleep) away from the (bleeping) thing. (bleep!)"
"Like (bleep). I want a closer look."
"(Bleep) that. It looks (bleeping) dangerous.
I'm staying (bleeping) far away, (bleep/personal insult)."
"You (bleeping) coward. I'm the one who's
gonna get (bleeping) close to the (bleeping) thing. You just keep the
(bleeping) camera rolling."
Obviously not a tourist group; maybe some natives
out for thrills. I stayed still and feigned sleep. I was going to give them the
thrill of their lives.
I almost blew it, though, then someone said,
"Action!" and PottyMouth screeched out, "Sheeeew-Dang! Can you
see that big ol' snout hidin' in them thar bushes? I'm tellin' you, chile, I
ain't nevah seen no gator that size or color a'fore."
Big snout? Me? Now he was asking for it.
"Look at them teeth. I sweahr, they's the
size of my bowie, they is. Jes look." I heard something snap and a
friction sound like a large knife against a plastic case. I waited for him to
try to lay his knife near my canines, but he didn't approach, and I guessed the
camera was doing a close-up. At least this time they'd get my better side. I
wondered who these jokers were.
I heard him put the knife back in its sheath and
say, "Yessir! This here critter ain't like nuthin' I ever seen. We may've
jes found us a new species. You know the Everglades is home to twenty threatened
species and fifteen endangered species, including the Day-Lee-own sable sparrow
and the south Florida American speckle-headed turtle. She-oot, we ain't got no
turtle here, do we? Let's see if'n we can get ourselves a closer look."
I waited while he snuck up close, muttering rea