Of Journeys and Journals

Maureen starts a journal

        Five pairs of eyes stared at the image, flipping back and forth from the cell phone screen, to the view through the car's windshield.  Beckett rolled downed the windows, and the scent of dense forest, green, rich and damp, filled the vehicle.  None of them were strangers to the bizarre, but the overgrown gate had caught them off guard, a visible punch to the gut reminder that life as they had once known it was gone forever.  A world of make believe, of things impossible and crazy, had become the new norm, and each member of the group struggled to process that information in their own way.

       For the Ridre Dubh, it was and always had been about action.  He exited the SUV, slamming the door hard as he did, and wandered over to the gate that protected the driveway to his cabin.   They watched as he tugged and pulled at the heavy vines, trying to tear at them with bare hands and meeting with  little success.  He was soon joined by Ian and Fr. Kevin, and despite working together, the leafy branches refused to bend or break, keeping the gate firmly and solidly closed.  Even a machete knife with an 8 inch blade, retrieved from Beckett's black case, did nothing to help the situation.  For each vine they cut, another instantly grew in its place, twice as thick, and impossible to break.    Swearing under his breath, the Black Knight walked back to the Yukon, and removed the black duffel bag containing the sword.

       Horrified at the prospect, Fr. Kevin objected.  "You're not really going to use St. Michael's sword to...to do landscaping, are you?  It's a divine..."  His comments were met with a look that made the words dry up in his mouth.  This man was not Ted Beckett, Sheriff of Dollyville, husband to his sister.  Standing across from him was the Ridre Dubh, Guardian of the Fay, acknowledged assassin, and downright scary looking dude.

          The moment the sword was in his hands, it began to glow, the blue stone in the pommel crackling with an eery energy.  "For clarification, O'Kenney, this sword is currently mine, not St. Michael's.  And yes, I intend to clear these fucking vines off MY gate with MY sword.  Magic sword against what is obviously Magic forest.  Makes sense to me."  Without further discussion, he marched up to the overgrown entryway, and with one wide arc, cut through the foliage from top to bottom.  The vines fell away, falling into piles on the ground like the coiled bodies of headless snakes.  The two sides of the gate instantly swung open with no prompting from any latch or remote.

           If the Black Knight was in anyway astounded by what had just happened, he gave no indication.  He nodded his satisfaction, and calmly returned to the car.  Then carefully rewrapping the sword back in the silk cloth, he placed it securely in the duffel bag, and returned to the driver's seat.  Without a word, Beckett started the engine and drove them all through the gate and up the driveway toward the cabin.  They had only gone a few feet, when there was a loud bang behind them.  Stopping the car, they all looked back toward the gate they had just passed through.  It had now shut itself with a vibrating clang, and as they watched in shocked amazement, the vines slithered up from the ground and reattached themselves.  There was a low humming sound as the each piece interlocked with another like a great twisted puzzle, and before long, both sides of the gate were once again completely covered with the strange foliage, securely keeping them inside...and everyone else out.

_______________________________

August 14th, 2015

Dear Diary....

No... that sounds too juvenile.  Like I'm some kind of adolescent teen who needs to hide her secrets under lock and key

Let's try...  Dear Journal.

Don't like that either. Too pretentious. I think I'm just going to go with a date as a heading.  It's not like I'm writing this TO anyone one specific, so I don't think a title is necessary at all.
So here it goes. 

August 14, 2015

It has been suggested to me that I keep a record of my adventures,  my innermost thoughts on all the craziness that seems to have invaded my life. In all honesty, I wasn't very keen on the idea.  After all, I'm no Jane Austen.  Hell...I'm not even E.L.James, though frankly, thanks to my dear husband, I could teach her a thing or two on the whole kinky subject. But I digress...

She has suggested that someday I will want to remember these things, and that my memory will play tricks on me, so I am preparing for that time by keeping this diary. (OK, so maybe it is a diary.  Don't judge me.) I hope it doesn't go like most things I start.  I'm all gung ho in the beginning, and then...well... I sort of lose interest.  It was like that with ballet, piano lesson,gymnastics, cheerleading,and rock climbing. (ok, that one was just because Jason Freemont was a rock climber, and I just wanted to climb Jason Freemont.  Maybe I shouldn't write that.  What if Ted reads this? Of course that was in the 9th grade.  He probably won't care about something that happened 10 years ago.  At least I don't think he will.  Hard to say anything for sure about my husband.) The point is, I have a tendency to give up on most things, but this time, I'm truly committed. Really.  I am.

So...today we arrived at the cabin.  It was a rather awkward trip.  Ted was in one of his moods, grumpy and silent.  He spent half the night doing what he calls his "meditating", which to me just looks like he's staring off into space, and trying to control his breathing.  He's big on the whole breathing thing. Don't even get me started on that.

The others were pretty quiet too.  I don't think any of us really knows what to expect from the next two week. We came here so Ted and Kevin can "train" with the sword in private.  No one was really clear on what that would involve.  I've been told not to dwell on the reasons.  She says it is bad for my "maternal creative energy".  Funny how every time I try to work things out in my head, my thoughts get fuzzy, and I find I can't keep my eyes open. It's like I need a nap, right then and there. I wonder if it is Her way of keeping me calm. And fertile.  She's hugely obsessed with fertility, mainly mine, and so far, I've been a big disappointment to her in that area.

 I guess I will let Ted work out the details of what will happen on this trip.  It's what he does well.  Handles details. I figure this can't be much different than the types of jobs he does for our government.  Except that it's got magic involved.  There... I've gone and said it! The "M" word. Magic. The kind of going-ons you find in Disney movies and books for kids with over active imaginations. Only it's real. Very touch-me-real. The concept should freak me out, but it doesn't.  I feel like I've known about the whole magic thing since I've been a little girl.  Granny would sit me and Kevin in her lap, and tell us these wonderful tales about the Fay as if they were part of our true family history. And from what I'm now discovering, they actually were. It seems our family has had a connection with the Fay for many generations. I wonder if my Dad knew? I can't picture my Dad, the tough Boston Police Sergeant, discussing the ways of faeries and such.

So when we arrived here, and that whole gate with the vines thing happened, well, I was surprised, but not afraid. She'd warned me that I would witness things that might seem odd at first glance, but that I shouldn't fear what I didn't understand. Insisted that I was quite safe, and that she would do all she could to see to that. Here's where I'm a tad embarrassed. I have a secret to confess, dear Diary. ( ok...so I kinda like having someone to write "to".  Again..don't judge me.) I was less afraid of the weird "magic" things that might happen, then I was of facing the "demons" of the past. I know.  That makes me sound totally self absorbed, but if you can't be honest in your own diary, then where can you be? I have spent the last few days sick to my stomach over the idea of having to share the same room...the same bed...as the one my husband shared with that crazy psycho bitch over that horrible Thanksgiving weekend. I kept telling myself that it was nothing to be afraid of.  It was just a room.  They were just dumb pieces of furniture. They had no hold on me. But try as I might, I couldn't shake my dread over the whole thing.

Turns out I'd been doing all that worrying for nothing.  A waste of my "maternal creative energy", as She would say. My dear, dear husband, the wonderful man he is, must have figured I'd be freaked  out over the prospect.  Imagine my surprise and delight to find the room completely redone! All that modern furniture gone, replaced with the kind of vintage pieces he knows I love, all done in pale chintz and prints. The room has an entirely different feel to it, calm and happy. How he made it happen in such a short time, I haven't a clue, though as I have mentioned before, my husband has a super human way with details.

So now you'd think I'd be happy, wouldn't you?  All the trouble he went through just to make me feel better. Truth is, now I just feel guilty, and it's weighing down on me like a lead overcoat. There's something I've been meaning to tell him for several days.  Something I've known since my return from Colonial Boston.  I hate keeping things from my husband, especially secrets of this magnitude. I keep waiting for the right time, but so far it hasn't shown itself to me.  The question is, how do you tell someone that you have your very own Fairy Godmother? A Cinderella-Home-At-Midnight type of Godmother, whose demands know no boundaries? One that insists She wants...no... WILL be an active part of your adult life. How do you drop that bombshell on a husband who values his privacy more than just about anything? I leave you, Dear Diary, with that dilemma,as I don't have a single thought as how to tell him.

Until later,

Maureen


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