Grimoire X
Andre the Librarian hosting "Story Time" at the Cleveland Public Library ~ 1948
"Come on In! . . .Take a Seat! . . . and Settle Down! . . ."
As the Ghost of Andre shares with you a tale by one of the leading story tellers of the past century.
Once a Month (on the 1st) We are going to post an original story by Andre Norton
During the showcase period you will be able to read it here free of charge.
Many were only published once.
So, it's a sure thing that there's going to be a few you have never heard of.
The order will be rather random in hopes you return often.
Happy Reading!
FAIRE LIKENESS
by Andre Norton
THE RENAISSANCE FAIRE AT RIDGEWOOD HAD, within the past few years, become a national tourist attraction. The center of the festival was the castle that Margaret and Douglas Magin had made the focus of their retirement; and, though the fortress was somewhat modest in mass, it was, nonetheless, a castle. Leading to the pile was a lane, lightly graveled, that was lined on either hand by the "town": a collection of three-room cottages, each with a display area for handicrafts on the side facing the "street." Beyond the booths to left and right lay wild land, where a growth of brush quickly gave way to woods. On the far side of the fortress was the famous Rose Garden---often put to service these days for weddings---and the tourney field.
Deb Wilson, my friend and sponsor at the Ridgewood Faire, was well used to these romantic surroundings. She not only displayed and sold articles made by herself and her classes in fine needlework, but also held seminars here. I had felt truly honored this year when she had asked for my help at her shop-booth during such times as she had to be elsewhere.
At that moment, though, I was beginning to regret my enthusiastic assent to be part of this year’s faire, of which I was not a member. The heat clung to me like yet another layer of the archaic clothing in which I was already wrapped. Irritably, I pulled at the tight bodice-lacings of my "authentic' period dress, pushed at the heavy folds of the skirt. Deb was wearing a twin to my garment, save that she was allowed a touch of embroidery to enliven it, since her persona was that of a leading guildswoman. In addition, she was also a judge of correctly-chosen and constructed clothing, as Margaret Magin was a stickler for historical accuracy.
"Good day, me bonny wench! 'Tis a fine sight for the eyes that ye are."
Attempting to respond to this strange salute, I turned too fast and cracked an elbow painfully against a screen. Then I realized that the greeting had been meant for my booth mate.
The man standing by the supports for the counter we had not yet set into place was short---no taller than Deb, at least. He was also certainly no paladin come riding. His faire garb was the drab stuff of a very common commoner and looked as though it needed a good washing. Beside him stood two train cases lashed together so that one handle served both.
"Sterling! I thought you were banished!" My friend's jaw tightened in a set that suggested she wished her statement were truth.
The shabby newcomer grinned. "Well, now, Deb m'dear---let's just say that fickle Fortune beamed upon me again. And she continues to smile, for behold! She has given me a roost beside the beauteous needle wielder herself." He nodded to the right, where indeed another booth-cabin stood unclaimed. "And," he continued conspiratorially, indicating his double bundle, "you're lucky, too. I've a little something here that’ll pull visitors aplenty in this direction."
Deb was flushing; this encounter was obviously no meeting of friends, as far as she was concerned. From a woman of usually even temper, such an attitude was puzzling. The needleworker turned a little toward me.
"This is Sterling Winterhue," she stated, as one person might call an unpleasant mistake to the attention of another. Then she gave a single curt nod at me. "Miss Gleason." The cold voice and bare-bones introduction were extremely unlike my friend.
' 'Yes sirree, ol' Winterhue hisself." The man pulled off his peaked cap, bowed awkwardly, and patted the top case. "Come with a real treasure. Gimme 'bout an hour to get set up; and then, Deb m'girl, you bring Miss Gleason over and get a preview."
"Lemme alone, Mark! Hey, mister---got any monsters this year?" The interrupting voice, shrill and willful, was that of a boy. Winterhue scowled, but only for an instant.
"So you like to see monsters, do you? Well . . .”
"Sir, I beg your pardon. Roddy---"
" 'Rod-dy, Rod-dy Rod-dy!' " the boy singsonged mockingly. "I don't hafta listen to you, you---cop! You been no-ing me all morning, and I'm gonna tell Nana!"
I had managed to push aside the embroidered screen that would shield one corner of the sales area and was now able to see the speaker. Very few Ridgewood residents would have failed to recognize that ten year old in spite of his page's dress: Roddy Magin, the pride of, and heir to, the castle.
The youth's companion was an archer, bearing an unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows across his back, but wearing on the breast of his jerkin a pendant in the form of a massive shield embossed with the royal arms of the court. A member of the security force, then. Just as I caught sight of the man's charge, Roddy threw a piece of pastry at him. The boy edged backward; however, he did not escape the hand that closed on his velvet-clad shoulder. He yelled and tried to twist free, but his guardian's hold failed to loosen.
As if the pair did not exist, Winterhue repeated to my partner, "Give it an hour, Deb, an' come along." With no further word he headed toward his booth, twin cases in tow.
Deb scowled openly after him. "I thought that man had been---" she began, then set her lips in a locking line.
The Magin boy now swung a kick at the archer. ' 'Lemme go, lemme---" His protest cut off with a squawk as he was picked up and held fast by his much-tried chaperone, who growled: "Be quiet, you brat!"
For a wonder, the child obeyed, giving Deb the chance to finish what she had begun to say a moment before. "Doesn't court banishment still hold?"
' 'Not if it doesn't please the Magins." Mark's tone was dry.
Roddy turned his head sharply and snapped at the hand still restraining him. The security officer looked to Deb, shaking his head as the boy mouthed an obscenity and spat: "Nana'll get rid of you! Wait' ll I tell her---"
'Wait till WE tell her," the archer corrected, controlling his temper heroically. "And we're going to do it right now. Sorry, ladies---" Giving a last nod, Mark set off down the lane, steering the pugnacious page before him.
Deb dropped onto a box, pushed a wandering strand of hair back under the edge of her frilled cap, and pulled her wristwatch out of the pouch at her belt. "Look at that---it's already eleven. I have to meet with Cathy and get the seminar leaflets. Don't wait lunch on me, 'Manda---I'll grab a burger or something on the way back."
I did not wish to make Deb late for her appointment, but I felt I must have some answers. "What was all that 'monster' business?"
Deb shook her head and picked up a tote that stood propped against the cabin door. "I'll tell you when I come back," she promised, adding grimly, "I do hope Mark can get Margaret to put a tight rein on that little pest."
She was out of the shop before I had a chance to protest. I knew there was no use in simply sitting and thinking up more questions, but I was determined to see that my booth mate answered those that had already occurred to me when I could get her alone again.
I fetched a Coke from the cooler. My head ached, and I wanted nothing more than to lie down on one of the cots. But rest, I knew, would not be sufficient to banish the disturbing thoughts that crowded into my mind; if I tried to relax, those would torment me even more. It was best to keep busy.
Regiments of thread packets had to be mustered out according to color, needles and other tools placed in plain sight. Books of tempting patterns required arranging, and some needed to be opened to a particularly intriguing design. As the display grew, I began to feel pride in my artistic ability.
When I broke off at last for a sandwich and another Coke, I glanced over to Winterhue's hut, but no sign of life was to be seen. Scents aplenty filled the air, however, chief among them the smell of barbecue from a cookshop down the street. The savory odor made me take an extra-large bite of my chicken salad.
"And where's the lovesome Deb, m'lady?"
I jumped. The packed earth and springy grass between the huts had deadened the sound of his approach, but Sterling Winterhue was back.
"She had to meet with one of the committee," I answered after a hasty swallow.
"And to see what brought me here." With this comment---and without invitation---the artist stepped into the outer section of the shop. He had removed the peasant’s cap with its towering peak and, as he bent briefly over my display, the top of his head showed a few grudging strands of gray-brown hair that looked as though they had been painted across his scalp.
Suddenly he looked up, and even in the dim light I could see his eyes glint. "So---Guildswoman Wilson is willing to miss her tryst with Sir Sterling, is she? Well, now, mistress, you won't."
Before I realized what he intended, Winterhue strode up and put a hand on my arm. Nodding and grinning, he drew me out into the road, then laughed as he set me free.
"Think me a lusty rogue, do ye? Nay, I am not such. Also---" Winterhue gestured toward his hut, "---what I have to show is displayed in sight of all."
I shall never understand why, but, without a murmur of protest, I went with him.
We came up to the outer "shop" section of the artist's cabin. Its front now stood fully open and was further extended by a wide table that doubled the show space. However, what was displayed there seemed scarcely able to be contained even in so generous a frame. If a giant whose hobby was miniatures had taken the entire faire for his collection, Winterhue's Renaissance panorama would be that scene. Here, wrought to impossible fairy-scale, were the castle, the lane with its shops, the tourney field, the famous rose garden. But these settings, impressive as they were, were eclipsed by the inhabitants. Those were plentiful, and every person, from high to low, was an individual portrait, rendered with almost disquieting accuracy. In spite of the afternoon heat, I shivered, for I now knew who Sterling Winterhue was.
"You did the Lansdowne goblins!" I exclaimed. Late in the spring, a craft fair had been held at the castle, and at that festival, two disturbing life-sized goblin figures had been the main draw. They had been assigned a price that had astounded most viewers, but they had been purchased for that astronomical amount for---rumor had it---no less a personage than a screen director.
The sculptor nodded again. "Yessirree, that was me." He made a sudden predator's swoop upon the tabletop world and, scooping up one of the figures clad as one of the nobility, he lifted it to my eye level.
"Our hostess---and a fine lady she is."
The resemblance was unmistakable---this was indeed Mrs. Magin, clothed in the richest of court dress. Winterhue smoothed her full skirt of green satin; then, after patting her on the back with a forefinger, he leaned forward to insert her once more into the rose garden. There a stout, gray-haired doll in red velvet waited, using a silver-headed cane for support.
"Yeah, Court and Faire," the miniaturist stated as she positioned the figures. "This is going to be good PR for them both. And there are only a few more people to be added---"
My host reached under the edge of the table and pulled out a drawer. In that receptacle lay more images, each dressed in the garb of a different social rank of the past. Here was a country woman, there a glittering courtier.
"Are you going to sell these?" I asked. I did not have to give any of the small sculptures further scrutiny to be assured that they were works of art.
"Sell them? Yes, but kind of---backward." Winterhue's tone had lost the jovial well-met quality it had earlier held. "You want to appear here, you pay for it."
From the drawer, the artist selected another figure and held it up. This one was, as yet, bald of head and blank of features, but something was familiar---I drew in a breath as recognition struck. "It’s Deb!"
"Just so," Winterhue agreed. "Our good needle mistress.”
"But why---" I began, then stopped. I could not believe that my partner had paid to have herself represented among the works of a man she so obviously disliked. I held out my hand, wanting to look at the poppet more closely, but its creator was already fitting it back into the case.
"Her doll's got to be done by tomorrow," Winterhue declared. "You might remind her of that, Miss Gleason." His hand still on the drawer he had just closed, the sculptor was now staring at me. "Gleason," he repeated. "Amanda Gleason, maybe? Wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in all this." He made a gesture that took in not only the table but our general surroundings. His stare grew more penetrating as he queried, "What do you think of it.”
In spite of the heat that had glued much of my clothing to my body, I felt a chill. "Do you intend it as a permanent exhibit at the castle?" I asked in a tone I hoped was calm.
"Right you are," Winterhue assented. "This display' ll go into the main hall of the castle, and tomorrow CNN will be here to tape it for the news." Abruptly he changed the subject. "Ever hear from Jessie these days?"
If the image-maker meant to disturb me by that inquiry, he did not succeed.
"I believe she left town some time back," I answered.
"Hmph," he muttered. "Hope she'll have better luck wherever she lights."
Here was another question. How had Winterhue come to know the would-be mystic who had caused so much trouble for several of the Ridgewood citizens?
" 'Manda---" Deb’s voice called. She had passed our cabin and arrived at that of the artist, carrying a covered basket whose lid heaved as though something within fought for freedom. Though she did not offer Winterhue the animated container, she spoke to him. "Margaret Magin wants you to include this . . ."
" 'Zat so?" The sculptor asked casually. In another of those snake-quick strikes, he shot out a hand. His fingers did not encircle Deb's wrists; rather, they touched the lid of the basket for an instant, and that top settled quietly into place. Then he did reach for the handle, but Deb swept the container out of his reach.
Her movement bumped the lid askew so that we could see the basket's contents: a black kitten who, at the sight of us, opened its mouth in a silent mew.
Sterling Winterhue . . . Jessie Aldrich . . . I thought back to some nasty gossip from the past concerning the sculptor and the supposed mystic---rumors of so-called black magic and the discovery of a suspiciously dead cat. I was only guessing, but there was no question about the throbbing that had begun in my head, and which was growing worse with every breath I drew.
' 'Manda, you brought a camera---get it!" Deb had suddenly become a drill sergeant barking an order to a slow-moving soldier.
I hastened back to our shop, remembering where I had set the Instamatic on one of the shelves. As I reached for it, I could hear my friend's voice; she was speaking more loudly than usual, as if increased volume would make her words more forceful, so I was able to catch most of what she said.
"We'll take some pictures for you, Sterling," she was telling the artist when I emerged from the cabin. "Hallie's birthday is tomorrow, and this kitten is one of her gifts from Margaret; she says she wants it placed on Hallie's lap."
Winterhue did not answer immediately; Deb's take-charge tone and behavior might have put him into a state of slight shock. Not until I came up to his booth did he take a step toward the display table.
"Over there," he said, "under the pine tree."
By now I was close enough to follow that pointing finger. Hanging from the miniature evergreen was a swing, and the doll seated in it depicted a small girl who wore a puff-sleeved dress and had her hair caught up in a net of fine gold thread. This was Hallie Magin, Roddy's younger sister.
"So---" Deb nearly hissed the syllable; I could tell that her anger was barely suppressed. "You dared to use her---"
"And why not?" The sculptors reply held something of his usual flippancy. "Our patroness wished it. All that witchcraft nonsense is over---and remember that the faire-in-small was Douglas Magin's idea to begin with."
Suddenly the basket tipped in my partner's hold, and a handful of black fur half jumped, half tumbled out. No sooner had it landed on the ground than it streaked into the brush behind Winterhue's booth and was gone.
Just as quickly, an expression that had probably been around since long before the Renaissance shot through my mind. Ramming the camera into a pocket of my skirt, I started after the runaway, but it had the advantages of youth, speed, and a good head start.
To my surprise, Deb laughed.
"Foiled!" She grinned, chuckling again. "Lucky for us the little thing's house trained; if we get some food, we can coax it back."
"That would be better for you." With this cryptic and somewhat sinister remark, the artist turned his back on my partner and placed both hands on the world-table. Under his careful urging, it gave way before him, sliding into the space at the shop front. Deb beckoned to me as she stooped to pick up the lid of the basket.
Back in our own private quarters, I settled myself on the edge of my cot. By now I felt thoroughly confused. Our neighbors mysterious behavior was strange enough, and Deb's lack of effort to locate the kitten was another piece of the puzzle.
"You have got to tell me what this is all about," I declared.
Deb had bent over the cooler of food we had brought with us and was probing among its contents. When she stood up, she was holding an oversized shaker that I knew contained her sea salt.
"Okay," she replied. However, her tone suggested that her focus for the moment lay elsewhere.
I had already had a good many surprises that day, but I was about to have another: Deb stepped to the nearest window and began to shake salt along the sill. Another sharp thrust of pain began above my left eye and headed inward, and I bit my lip to stifle a gasp, lest I interrupt the ritual. For ritual it was; I knew what she was doing, and I could guess why. She was now closing---according to Pagan belief---every opening in our temporary home that could be used as a means of entry by the Dark.
I have always believed that the needleworker's unique art flowered during her New Age research, which had, in itself, branched from her delvings into the past. As far as I knew, Deb was not a Wiccan, but she did accept a great many beliefs held by walkers of the Old Way. When, in the past, a group of us had been roused to action by the unethical conduct of Jessie Aldrich, my friend had been emphatically on our side.
My own interest in the early religion had been piqued at that time, but my convictions were too strong to allow surrender of the faith I had observed through my life. However, what I could accept, I did, and in no way would I question that which others felt to be true.
Deb's silence lasted so long I feared she did not intend to answer. At last, though, she set the shaker down on top of a box and seated herself on the opposite cot.
"Most of what I know about started at Hentytown over in Kentucky a couple of years ago. That was the first time the local Renaissance group held a faire, and they asked our people to give them tips."
Deb looked grim. “You know, after what we went through with Jessie, that fantasy has a dark side, and that, used for the wrong reasons, it can become truly evil. Well, Sterling likes to portray those unsavory aspects in his work. That kind of sculpture was never shown to the public, only to select customers; we always thought he made the shadow-ones to order. Anyway, he was still discreet about them.
"Then he brought a couple of boxed panoramas to Hentytown." Deb's mouth pursed as though she tasted something bitter. "It got around that he had a live monster in one of them. Our adorable Roddy, who'd been taken to that faire with his sister, broke into Winterhue's booth when the banquet was on; apparently another boy had dared him to. The kids took the box, but Hallie had followed them and they caught her. 'They were making her look at it when Mark Bancock found them."
Deb paused.
"What was in it?" I demanded.
"Hallie was screaming like a banshee, but she never would tell what she saw. Roddy and his friend claimed it was nothing really scary---just a scene of a girl in the woods at night with something looking at her from behind a bush. But the boys kicked it apart, so no one ever knew what it really showed."
My friend shook her head. "There was a lot of trouble; Sterling had done that box to order and had already taken a down payment. Nobody outside the inner Court knows what settlement was made to his customer, but it was said to have been a huge sum. Shortly after that came the nasty business with Jessie that I'm sure you don't care to remember---" (l raised a hand in a defensive gesture, wanting indeed to ward off those memories.) "---and witnesses said Winterhue was seen at two of her so-called Black Masses. The Court banished him; but apparently, after the craft fair here in the spring and that big sale he made with the goblins, Margaret Magin took him back into the fold.
"Now he's managed to interest CNN---they want to do a story and get pictures once his miniature faire is set up in the castle. That may sound like good publicity, but I keep thinking we're in for more trouble."
Perhaps more than you suspect, I thought. Then, hesitatingly, I told her, "Sterling showed me an unfinished doll he says is you."
Deb actually snarled. '"Just let him try to use it! Margaret said he has to get written permission to do anyone's likeness in one of those things."
"Miss Wilson?" Deb was being hailed from the front of the store and rose to see what was wanted. I followed a few minutes later, after invoking the magic of two aspirin to banish the pain-demon who had taken up residence above my left eye.
The newcomers were a large woman and a boy who were wearing the coarse clothing of medieval villagers. "How do we look?" the matron was demanding of Deb as I came out.
"We’re entering the contest as a family," she continued. "I'm Helen Quick, and my husband is Robert---he's playing the cloth merchant. Will we pass for a merchant's family?"
The boy, who plainly wanted to be elsewhere, shook free from the hold his mother had on his shoulder. "That guy with the little clay people," he said, pointing to Winterhue's display. "He liked what we had on---he said he might even put us in his table thing!"
Mrs. Quick's face flushed an even deeper red than the heat had already colored it. "Shut up, Mike!" she snapped, shooting a hostile look toward the sculptors booth. "I've heard about him, and we sure don't want to get mixed up in his stuff! Well, Miss Wilson?"
Deb inspected the pair for a moment before she nodded and delivered judgment.
"Very good. Except---" she pointed to the child's footgear, "---those should come off, Mike. We're supposed to be in a small village. You might wear clogs in winter or bad weather, but you'd go barefoot on a day like this."
The boys mother caught up her wide skirt to reveal simple black shoes. "Do I go bare, too?"
Deb smiled. "No, Mrs. Quick. For the wife of a merchant, you've chosen exactly right."
"Okay, then." With no more in the way of thanks, the matron stepped back into the street, pushing her reluctant son ahead of her.
I shook my head in disbelief as I watched them disappear into the crowd. "Are they all like that?" I wanted to know. It might be the needleworker's duty to pass on the authenticity of costumes, but it appeared she had a thankless task.
My friend laughed. "Well, there are enough like them to keep us in our places! Now that this faire has gotten important enough to draw the big media, we're getting twice the usual number of people signing up to do' characters."
"Is Mrs. Quick in the SCA?" I inquired. "I don't remember her from last year." I knew some members of the Court, but I had never witnessed such rudeness from any of them.
"Not that I know," Deb answered, adding dryly, "If she's a newcomer, -she may be an equally quick goer."
At that moment, the call of a horn rang out, making both of us jump.
"The parade is staring through town," Deb explained. "The Court will be making their entrance now; this is their first appearance all together." She gave a silent whistle of relief. "Glad I didn't have to be involved with that."
Afternoon slid into evening, bringing a welcome breeze as we finished our preparations. Several of our fellow 'merchant’s' hung out lanterns. No such lighting beckoned passersby to the front of Winterhue's booth, but a dim glow in the back of the shop suggested that the artist might be busy there. Was he, I wondered, engaged in finishing the poppet that would link my friend to his miniature world, whether she wished to be so connected or not?
Deb's attention was also fixed on our neighbor’s quarters. "Trouble!" she said tersely. "Not my affair, though---I refuse to get involved again." She made that statement as though repeating a solemn oath. Turning away, she lit three lanterns, two of which were to be suspended outside, and a camp lamp of contemporary design (and greater power) whose use must be confined to the hues interior. Next, she delved into a suitcase and brought out her second costume---that of the guildmistress---which she would be wearing to the banquet.
While Deb was dressing, I went down the street in search of the barbeque that had been teasing my nose all day. It was when I left the "tavern," supper in a bucket in my hand, that I saw the sculptor again. Unlike other merchants in the village, he had not changed his drab work clothes for more colorful and festive ones in preparation for the evenings activities, nor did he seem to notice me.
As I returned, I saw that my friend had two escorts waiting for her at the front of our shop. One was Mark Bancock, who was saying crisply to his companion, "If that kid tries to break into Winterhue's booth again, they’ll have to lock him up. I've got no time to babysit the brat."
The other man was the first person I had seen in mundane clothing the whole day. Sighting me, he lifted a hand in salute, and I returned the gesture, recognizing an old acquaintance. Jim Barnes was the closest thing to a feature writer the modest Ridgewood newspaper possessed.
"Press on duty, Jim?" I asked teasingly. "Shouldn't you be wearing a town crier's outfit?"
He nodded toward the archer and returned my banter. "Nay, mistress---merely making the rounds of the crime scene with yon constable."
In the context of what I had seen and heard about our neighbor, the reporter’s joke did not seem amusing. I certainly hoped that the already much-put-upon security man would not be forced to perform actual police duties.
" 'Manda . . ." Deb beckoned me inside to where she stood, well away from the shop door and the waiting men. When she spoke, her voice was hardly above a whisper. "Be careful, please. I don't like you being alone."
Such a warning was very unlike my friend, and I found it unsettling; I waited for her to tell me the reason for her concern, but she said no more. In fact, she seemed so eager to be gone that, as she stepped out and greeted her escort, I had only a moment to wish them an enjoyable evening before all three left.
After fixing the shop bell so that it would announce any visitors, I brought my supper out into the front portion of the booth. I ate slowly, watching the street.
Winterhue's hut was totally dark now; and indeed, all the world had grown gray, since the light of the period lanterns did not carry far beyond the fronts of the shops.
However, though the faire was shadowed, it was by no means silent. From the direction of the castle came a cry of trumpets, probably to announce the seating of the Court; then, more faintly, a burst of music followed, of the kind I had heard being rehearsed for several months. Light (albeit dim), and sound, and scent, too, had messages for the senses in the evening air. I was aware of incense burning, though not near; the night breeze brought no more than a hint. The unreal world that was the faire seemed to be waiting for something.
Having finished my supper---most of which, due to my nervousness, had ended up in the trash---I returned to the inner room and took a paperback from my tote. Almost immediately I put it back again. Perhaps if I rested . . .
After a moment's struggle, I freed myself from the heavy skirt and the laced bodice that held me in the grip of an Iron Maiden and put on my Chinese cotton robe. On impulse, I pulled out several boxes and pushed aside a limp curtain to look out of one of our two windows at Winterhue's shop. Nothing moved there.
In the suspense stories I read for relaxation, a cold wind, or some equally disquieting phenomenon, always announces the arrival of danger. I, however, was simply unable to settle down. This was a strange feeling and one I had never had before; time might have ceased to exist.
The moon was favoring the faire tonight, and a bright beam carved a path between our booth and that of our neighbor. Without warning, something dropped from the air into that ray-path. Leaves and bushes rustled.
"Darn you, cat!"
The intruder from the woods could now be clearly seen: it was Mike Quick from the merchant family. The boy dropped to his knees to grab at a small black blot, but with a bound, the blot eluded him. Overbalancing, he fell forward, and his prey vanished into the dark.
"Sneaking around, eh?" A second, much larger shadow moved into the moonlight and pulled Mike halfway off the path in the direction of the artist's hut. '"Well, I have a cure for that---"
By this time I was up, thrusting my feet into my shoes, sure I was hearing choking sounds from the merchant youth. When I looked out again, his captor was dragging the wildly-kicking boy toward the Winterhue booth, but the man halted abruptly when he sighted more movement at the trees' edge.
"Mike!" cried a second young voice. "You got that kitten yet?"
"You, is it?" the man roared. "You miserable little vandal, I'll have you now!"
His captor gave a forceful shove, and the Quick boy fell back again into the moonlit path. He did not get to his feet but scuttled for the safety of the wood on hands and knees.
Quietly as I could, I left my vantage point and moved to the front of the shop. Unlatching the outer door and loosening the alarm cord, I took up the flashlight we had set on one of the shelves. As I stepped outside, I almost echoed the leap of Mike's prey as a small furred body fastened onto the hem of my robe.
A rise and fall of words began, none of which I could understand. Tugging my robe free from the kitten's grip, I ran toward the speaker, who I did not think was addressing anyone in this world.
The chant cut off abruptly, and Winterhue (I could not see his face, but I knew it was he) spoke the merchant boys name, making of its single syllable a drawn-out siren call: "M-i-i-i-ke . . ."
Hardly had he completed the word when the youth cried out. The artist moved onto the path to meet Mike, who was returning as summoned. The boy crawled back into the moonlight, body close to the ground, fingers crooked like the claws of an animal. Roddy simply stood to one side of the way, his mouth open as though he were screaming but making no sound at all.
I stepped up behind Winterhue, so that I, too, stood facing the boys. As I moved, the sculptor was lifting one arm; then he leaped toward them, and the moon caught the glitter of a knife blade as he raised the weapon. His other hand closed on a loose dark curl that lay over Roddy's forehead. Still the boy remained silent, his face a mask of mindless fear.
"No!" I cried. Snapping on the flashlight, I caught the three figures full in its powerful beam.
Startled, the sculptor loosed the lock of hair, twisting round so he faced partly into that light, and I clung to the hope that he could not see me behind it. Even his goblin figures had not worn such terrifying expressions as his own features now formed.
Stepping back from Roddy, Winterhue wheeled in a crouch, a soldier facing a charging enemy. The Magin boy made no attempt to run as Mike Quick wormed his way up beside him; the older youth's mouth was working as though he were shouting, but he, too, was held by the spell of silence that gripped his friend.
"Drop that light, bitch!" the artist spat in my direction.
To my horror, my grip on the barrel of the flash was loosening. At the same instant, I felt a renewed pull at the hem of my robe: the kitten was climbing, but I dared not try to remove it, lest I lose control of the light, which I was now holding in both hands. I fully expected Winterhue to attack me and tried to edge backward, only to discover I was rooted there. I had no more power over my own body than the sculptor's small dolls---or the two large, living manikins who stood before me---had over theirs.
"I said, drop it---!"
A force that might have been an extension of the artist’s will seized me, shaking me painfully, and only with great effort did I manage to keep hold of the light. The small cat had reached my shoulder in its ascent. Against the arm up which it was now making its way, its frail body weighed very little; however, it could interfere with any defensive move I might have to make.
Vicious laughter burst from the sculptor as he saw my predicament. I was sure he would reach out and take the flashlight easily from my helpless hands to complete his triumph; but he did not. What he did do was far more frightening.
For the second time he raised the hand holding the knife, but he did not strike at me; instead, he placed the blade between his teeth in the manner of a storybook pirate. From the breast of his jerkin, he brought out a poppet on which the moonlight seemed to center with added intensity. It was smaller than those he had shown to Deb and me, but it was unmistakably another portrait-figure. The head was still bald, but the features were those of Roddy Magin.
Returning the knife to his hand, Winterhue turned and twisted the weapon over the doll, as though seeking the most vulnerable spot to stab. Again he laughed.
"Needs a little trimming up---I was going to give him some hair, until you showed up, damn you! You've done enough already to spoil my plans with your bleeding-heart blabber in that letter to the paper about Jessie's animal sacrifice. Now, Miss Lady-in-Shining-Armor, you just watch old Winterhue, because he's going to show you a real artist's secret."
I could do nothing but obey in a body that had become an imprisoning shell. The kitten had settled on my shoulder, and its soft fur brushed my cheek as it shifted position. It was purring with surprising volume for its size, yet the vibration told not of contentment but of mingled fear and anger. And from that so-small source, power was expanding. Downward into my body it flowed, warming my arms until I once more felt the prickling return of life to my hands.
The sculptor moved the knife point closer to the head of the doll, aiming at one of the unblinking eyes.
"Easy---so very easy---to handle folk who come a-spying . . ."
That threat I head, but it was the last understandable thing the artist said. Yet again he spewed forth a series of meaningless sounds which, though discordant, had a rhythm to their flow. Winterhue took a quick stride to the edge of the light, revealing Roddy to my view. The boy was on his knees, swaying back and forth, his hands pressed over his eyes.
I tried to scream, but nothing came from my mouth. Then the rough tip of a tiny tongue flicked across my lips, and suddenly sound broke forth---no words I knew, but strange noises I had made no effort to form. The artist answered with cries that were loud enough to muffle my own, but still I continued. His fingers clenched as he tried to keep hold of the knife; even as I had fought to keep the flashlight steady earlier, so now he was struggling to retain his weapon.
It was the doll that fell though, thankfully, the knife did also a moment later. At the same time, the flow of Jabberwocky from my lips ended and I was free to move. Winterhue had gone to hands and knees to retrieve the blade, but only inches before his fingers, the thing was sliding itself away over the ground like a stray moonbeam.
" 'Manda!" a familiar voice cried.
'What’s going on?" someone else called, followed by a chorus of other shouts to which I paid no attention; I had just achieved my goal of recovering the doll. Now, with Roddy's image in my hands, I started toward the boy himself. In that instant, the youth charged the still-kneeling sculptor---an attack I could see by the light that blazed from the poppet in my trembling hands.
Mark and two other members of faire security separated the youth from the object of his wrath, while Deb pulled the flashlight gently from my hands and held it steady. I became aware that the small weight on my shoulder was gone.
I felt completely bewildered by the events of the night---to such a degree that I could actually sympathize (a little) with Roddy Magin, who was crying with the force of a two year old and still struggling, in Mark's grip, to reengage his enemy. Winterhue, however, was no longer a threat.
That being so, there was something I had to do. I edged away from the light, though my friend tried to hold me, repeating my name in alarm. A few moments later, hardly knowing how I had come there, I found myself kneeling at the edge of the woods. With one hand, I felt the ground until my fingers sank into a soft patch, then set about digging as a squirrel might open an earth pocket to hide a nut. Tearing off one of the ruffles of my chemise, I wound it about the doll, fitted the manikin into the hole, scooped back the soil, and flattened it.
Deb knelt down beside me. My friend no longer held the flashlight, so only the moon witnessed the "burial service" we gave the poppet, she pronouncing more of that unintelligible language over its "grave." I, meanwhile, sat rubbing my eyes, behind which had erupted a headache of migraine proportions.
Questions . . . so many questions. Who---or what---was Sterling Winterhue? The dolls he shaped---were they dangerously bound in some manner to the persons they represented, or was this fear only a dark fancy born of the torture in my skull?
I do not remember the ride to the hospital; once there, however, I know I was visited by dreams that left me weak and sick. When I finally began to rise from the utter debility and the pain that---I discovered later---had actually lasted for days, I made a decision about my experience. I had been drawn into the uncharted territory of the psychic realm, and I would not, in future, knowingly venture so, away from my earthly home. Never again---not I.
Before I was discharged from the hospital, my friend left town, having taken a position as a lecturer with a traveling exhibit of Renaissance needlework. She had visited me daily, but neither of us was comfortable with the other any longer. In the encounter with the sculptor, I had learned that the Deb Wilson I thought I knew was but a costume, like one of her period dresses, for the woman of power who had come forth that night. I found I did not even want to ask questions, though I had a daunting number of them to answer myself when the sheriff and a state trooper visited me. The most crucial query had yet to be posed, and not to me but to the organizers of the festival: Would there be another Ridgewood Renaissance Faire?
On the day I came home to a safe and sane life again, someone was waiting at the door. This was one friendship I would not avoid, and my new acquaintance would ask no questions. Moonshadow, the kitten, was the only piece of miniature magic I cared to own---or be owned by.
