Modern Magick

Music and Misadventure: 13

I might be becoming an old hand at travelling by the Ways, but this was something else.

We were whirled up, up and away into the aether; so far, so ordinary. After that, we were leaves on the wind, and not in a cute way. Ever watched a coppery autumn leaf tossing and turning in the currents, sailing with airy serenity from gust to gust? It looks like the epitome of freedom.

It feels like crap.

As if the Winds themselves weren't "playful" enough (as Jay had euphemistically put it), invisible hands snatched at my clothes, my limbs, my hair, and sent me tumbling in dizzying spirals. After half a miserable minute of this, I was longing for solid ground beneath my feet and praying, otherwise, to die.

When at last the whirl of winds ceased, and I felt approximately stationary again, the first words to pass my lips were: 'A pox on all sprites. One of the really bad ones, too.'

'Smallpox,' said my mother.

'Too... small.'

'The Black Death,' said Jay.

'Might do.'

'Actually,' came a new and unfamiliar voice, 'they're sylphs.'

I opened my eyes.

Considering the starting point and our mode of transport, I'd expected to end up somewhere else improbably beautiful, even if it ended up being another clone of Hansel and Gretel's forest.

Instead, we'd landed in somebody's living room. I felt carpet under my hands — reasonably plush, not cheap — and the ceiling I was staring at was white plaster, with fussy ornaments in the corners. A huge bookcase monopolised the far wall, and tucked into the corner was a standard lamp with a kingfisher-blue shade, and a deep, luxurious armchair.

In the armchair sat a man of, maybe, sixty. His hair was grey, his face rather tanned, his eyes extraordinary: a kind of silvery-blue colour. He looked unassuming, in his wine-coloured jumper and dark trousers, with a large book open on his lap. His stare, though, was penetrating.

'I appear to be horizontal,' I said.

'It's rare to encounter the sylphs and come out standing,' said the man.

I looked around, wincing around a pain in my neck. Jay had already made it to his feet, and stood with his back to the window, looking rather... trapped.

Mother had dragged herself into a corner, like a wounded animal, and sat scowling at the person we'd inadvertently gate-crashed upon.

'Have I changed that much?' she growled.

The man closed his book and turned a thoughtful stare upon Mother. 'When a trio of hitch-hikers wash up without warning in my living room, it's rather too much to expect to know them as well.'

'Just one,' said Mother. 'Just me.'

I sat up, and peered at the man with unabashed scepticism. This was the gorgeous lyre-player? He looked ready to become somebody's kindly grandfather about now, or he would if it wasn't for that steely stare.

'Mum,' I said. 'This can't be him.'

'It is,' she said.

'It can't be.'

'I know, but it is.'

'Mother. He's either under the best fae glamour I've ever heard of, or he's human.'

'You've come from the rath?' said the man, ignoring this exchange.

'The what?' said Mother.

'The fort. Is my effigy still there?'