The Orange Cat & other Cainsville tales (8 page)

Ricky chose to embrace what he had. Both in life and with Liv. He knew how she felt about Gabriel. He knew how Gabriel felt about her. And he knew that someday, maybe that would amount to something. But someday wasn’t now. Right now, he had her, and if he had her, he wanted her happy.

So when she flinched as he suggested she take the fae stuff to Gabriel, he said, “I can ask him if you want, but you guys know this stuff better than I do.”

“I’ve already talked to him.”

Now Ricky was the one tensing. Because, yeah, he could say her relationship with Gabriel didn’t bother him at all, but the “at all” part was bullshit.

“He could tell there was something wrong,” Liv said.

Of course he could.

“He kept pushing, so I told him we ran into fae at the swimming hole.”

“Not the whole story, I hope.”

That made her laugh and relax, taking a bite of oatcake as she shook her head. “Definitely not that part. He did offer to look into the fae thing. He’s concerned—our run-ins with them haven’t usually been quite so . . . friendly.”

Ricky chuckled, relaxing a bit himself. “So he’s already on it?”

“No, because there’s something I didn’t tell you. About my own encounter. I told Gabriel that I needed to speak to you about that part first, and I’ll e-mail him the details later.”

“What’d he say to that?”

“He agreed.”

Ricky exhaled under his breath. “Okay, well, let’s talk then, and you can get that e-mail sent. You said the fae dragged you out of a cavern. Is that not all she did?”

Catching his look, she laughed and shook her head. “When I said my encounter wasn’t nearly as pleasant as yours, I meant it. I jumped into the water and ended up in an underground cavern. She found me there and dragged me out, and then presumably went to give you a scare, too, got a look at you and changed her mind. Which I can totally understand.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I have a feeling it was more a case of her thinking that might be another way to get rid of us.”

“Uh, yeah. She doesn’t know a lot about guys, does she?”

“I suspect she was thinking more about the
girlfriend
of the guy. The one who would come over after her traumatic experience and find her boyfriend getting a little fae-action. Whereupon she would freak out and drag him far from the swimming hole, never to return.”

“Is that what I was supposed to do? Damn. I never get that right.” A sip of her tea. “Okay, so no fae-action for me. There
was
more to the story. Mainly what I saw in the cavern before getting hauled out.”

Liv explained. He listened and then said, “Huh.”

“Exactly.”

“Logistically, there can’t be an actual castle under the mountain, so I’m presuming it was a vision. But something
must
have been there if she was so quick to drag you out.” He paused. “Presuming that the fae
is
a she.”

Liv grinned. “You couldn’t tell?”

When he shook his head, her grin grew, and she said, “And don’t seem to care.”

“Not particularly, though the light touch suggests female. And, yeah, before you ask, I do know the difference. I spent a few weeks as a camp counselor when I was fourteen. Another counselor thought I might be his type. At that age, I didn’t know myself. Turned out I wasn’t, but I won’t say it wasn’t fun finding out.”

She laughed. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“The fae
was
female. If I thought otherwise, I might have been a little more cautious about encouraging you to enjoy the attention in case you wouldn’t have appreciated the surprise. It’s very refreshing to know that wouldn’t be an issue. Also, kinda hot. But I saw her arm when she grabbed me, and it was female. And she did
drag
me out. She wasn’t helpfully tugging me to safety. Which means there must have been something actually in that cavern.”

“And the vision of castles suggests Celtic or Germanic fae.” He considered that. “Maybe not, though. It depends on which came first, fae castles or human.”

Liv arched her brows.

Ricky stirred more sugar into his tea. “If we say that fae castles are British or European, that suggests the fae copied them from humans. Could be the other way around. In which case, castles could still mean something to fae native to
this
region. A question of which came first. As for whether it’s a vision . . . Where were the original fae castles? Deep in the forest where humans just never stumbled over them? Or is it just that humans can’t see them? They aren’t in another dimension. We know that, right?”

“Right. Fae live in this dimension, with us. As for the castles? I have no idea. I’ve seen them in visions. Real castles. Life-size. What you’re saying, though, is that just because it makes no sense to have a castle under the mountain, doesn’t mean there can’t somehow be one. Which would make it not a vision.”

She pressed her fingers to her temples. “My head hurts. I liked my world better when things like underground castles resided only in books and movies.”

“Liar.”

He reached for her hand, hooking her fingers in a squeeze . . . and then trying to snag the last oat bar. She beat him, scooping it up and waving it in front of him.

“I win,” she said. “As always. You might as well just concede—”

He snatched the cookie from her fingers.

“Damn,” she said.

He broke the oatcake and gave her half. “Now e-mail Gabriel the details. It’s almost time for dinner.”

#

Jeanne lived just outside town, maybe a mile walk from the inn, so that’s what they did—walked.

“I’ll warn you it’s not a big fancy meal,” she said.

“Wouldn’t expect that,” Ricky said. “If I invited someone at the last minute, I’d have to get takeout.”

“We can do better than that. Laurel’s made a pot of chowder and lobster rolls. Hope that’s all right.”

“That is awesome.”

“She said it would be, but I fussed. In my day, you’d never serve a guest lobster. That was poor-folk food. I’d hide my lobster rolls at school so the other kids wouldn’t see them while I dreamed of peanut butter or bologna.”

“I dreamed of peanut butter, too,” Ricky said. “But that’s because our school was a nut-free zone. I snuck PB&J once. Thought I got away with something. My dad found out and gave me proper hell.”

“Good,” Jeanne said. “One of my grandbabies has that allergy, and some
parents
at her school try to argue kids should be allowed to bring it. I won’t keep it in my house. So you’re stuck with lobster.”

“Fine by me.”

Six - Liv

For dinner, we had piping hot chowder stuffed with seafood. Freshly baked rolls with chilled lobster and homemade mayo. Iced tea. Coleslaw. All served in the backyard, surrounded by forest.

As wonderful as the meal was, the conversation was even better. We talked about fae folklore from around the world and how it related to both local Gaelic and Mi'kmaq lore.

The concept of fae as “little people” fascinates me. Older lore is often closer to the truth—that fae are roughly human size. I suppose at one time, with so much of the world unexplored, it was easy to believe full-size humanoid creatures inhabited forests and lakes. As that wilderness dwindled, it must have seemed more likely that the reason we didn’t see them was their size. Fairies became tiny beings that slipped past unnoticed. The truth, of course, is that when their territory dwindled, the fae responded the same way humans do to invading cultures: they disappeared by staying in plain sight. Instead of inhabiting forests and lakes, they adopted human glamours and lived among us.

The meal stretched on into dessert. Porkpies. Which were neither pies nor pork, but tarts made with dates and brown-sugar icing. As I ate my second one, I steered conversation toward the swimming hole.

“Hildy says it’s cursed?” I said.

Laurel made a face. “It was the site of a few historical drownings, not surprising given the depth. We had a geologist here on vacation who took an interest, thinking it might be glacial. He dropped a sinker and determined it’s at least fifty feet deep, which is incredible given the circumference.”

“At
least
fifty feet,” Jeanne said. “But he never properly measured it. Care to tell them why, Laurel?”

Her granddaughter made that face again.

Jeanne crossed her arms. “Go on. Tell the nice people why it hasn’t been properly measured.”

“Because he didn’t have proper equipment, and he wasn’t going to come all the way back here—”

“No, that’s the excuse he gave. After he came tearing out of that forest like the devil himself was on his heels”—she looked at us—“he said he saw a face in the water. A woman’s face. He thought it was a drowning victim, but when he reached in? She reached back. She grabbed his wrist.”

“Kids playing tricks,” Laurel said.

“What kids? Even
you
wouldn’t go up there when you were little. No one goes near that hole. We all know better. It’s a passage to the next world.”

“A fairy hole?” I asked.

When Laurel looked over, I said, “We were on Kellys Mountain, at the fairy hole there. The cave at the water’s edge. I heard a little of the lore. It wasn’t something I was familiar with.”

“Glooscap’s Cave,” Jeanne said.

Laurel nodded. “It’s also known as the Fairy Hole and, yes, it’s believed to be a passage to the spirit world. The afterlife. The Otherworld. Whatever you care to call it. The locals think that our swimming hole is the same thing in landlocked form.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I think folklore is absolutely fascinating as a window into the human psyche. Cross-cultural similarities prove that. We all fear the same things, and we invent remarkably similar stories to deal with those fears.”

“Yes,” Jeanne said drily. “Apparently explaining similar experiences by speculating on another evolutionary branch of humans is ridiculous. Somehow it makes far more sense to say that our brains are predisposed to come up with the same explanation despite being oceans apart and from vastly different cultures.”

“I never said believing in the little people is ridiculous, Gran.”

“The implication is there. As is the one that suggests you are the educated new generation, forced to deal with the superstitions and stories of us ignorant old folk. You aren’t the only one who went off and got her degree.”

“I’m sorry, Gran. And now we’ve made our guests terribly uncomfortable.”

“Nah,” Ricky said. “I have the same issue with my grandmother. Except I’m the one who believes in ghosts, and she’s the one who says that’s poppycock. Direct quote, by the way.
Poppycock
. But she does believe in fairies. Fairies are real; ghosts can’t be. Go figure. But yeah, getting back on topic, could the swimming hole be haunted? You mentioned something about drownings? Did the stories start with them?”

“In a way,” Laurel said as she reached for her tea. When she knocked a spoon from the table, I thought,
Company’s coming
.

She reached to pick it up. I tensed, and she smiled and said, “I should leave it there to avoid a disappointment, right?”

“Sorry. My brain is overstuffed with omens, courtesy of my mother. Go ahead and pick it up.”

She took another instead, saying, “I might not believe, but I still hedge my bets. So, the stories about the swimming hole . . . They date back to the first immigrants, which is interesting, as timelines go. Often what you see is immigrants assimilating and restructuring the stories of the original inhabitants.”

“Assimilating and restructuring?” Jeanne said. “Ah, yes, that’s what Mikey Wallace should have been charged with when he stole those cars, repainted them and filed off the serial numbers. Assimilating and restructuring.”

“I know Laurel’s trying to put it politely,” Ricky said. “But it is usually people taking local legends, completely reworking them and then passing them off as their own.”

“True,” Laurel said. “But hasn’t that always been the way with folklore and myth? It’s like urban legends. You’re passing on stories that have been related to you as truth. If you two tell someone else about the fairy cave at Kellys Mountain—having never heard the Mi’kmaq’s Glooscap version—are you appropriating our story? Are you even being irresponsible for passing along a charming folktale without investigating the roots first?” She shook her head. “I think we’ve got bigger issues of appropriation to worry about.”

“Bigger issues, yes,” Jeanne said. “Which doesn’t mean we
shouldn’t
worry about this one. But the question was about the drownings. Laurel’s right. The legends only started after the first immigrants arrived. Scottish, mainly. They hadn’t even broken sod before they started circulating stories about the swimming hole, which our people had swum in for generations. That made the whites look like proper fools, saying it was haunted . . . until some of our people also reported strange goings on there. Whispers and voices. Glimpses of a figure under the water. Swimmers having their feet grabbed. The sound of bells.”

My chin jerked up.

“Liv heard bells,” Ricky said. “Tinkling ones.”

“That’s what they said, too. Some people stayed away. Others, mostly the young ones, were drawn to it. Kids can’t resist a spooky place. Then came the drownings.”

“There was one confirmed drowning,” Laurel said. “Two disappearances—people who dove and never came up. Together with the rest, that was enough for people to start steering clear.”

“Even tourists who’ve never heard the stories,” Jeanne said, “they sense wrong about the place.”

“A psychic No Trespassing sign,” I said. “We definitely got that vibe. But all this started
after
the first immigrants—”

A distant knock sounded.

“Well,” Jeanne said, “either the little people don’t like us talking about them or there’s someone at the door.” She called, “We’re out back.”

A young woman appeared—about Laurel’s age and thin, with light brown hair braided back. Dark circles underscored reddened eyes. I didn’t need an omen to tell me who this was, and Laurel’s murmured curse confirmed my suspicion.

Laurel rose. “Hey, Krista. We were just having tea and dessert. Let me go get you a cup. Take my seat.”