by Carl E. Mullin ©2020
A bright light called to her, making her world glow and she gripped her gun.
She opened her eyes. The heavy curtains seemed strange, hanging stiff and horizontal, letting the bright light peek through the cracks. Then she remembered that she was on her bed and that the curtains were covering the patio doors. She glanced at the little ornate clock embedded in the shaft of a lamp under its shade of rich-colored glass. Under the two little ebony slaves bound by gilded garland, the clock face showed hands at eight o’five.
She had only a few hours’ sleep. Doesn’t matter. She yanked the cover off her nude body and rose from the luxurious pillowtop of her king-sized bed with her gun. She glanced about the room with rust-red patterned wallpaper.
No enemies in sight.
She sighed and rolled her shoulders to loosen her tight neck. “Ah,” she muttered, feeling her still-healing side. In excitement, she had forgotten the bone-bruise from the battle. The healing was slow still. Hannah was such a dear. It was a small price to have her love. She will have to think of a way to repay her debt to her.
She stood and stretched out her arms and started touching her toes. After a few minutes of getting her blood flowing she stood up and stepped to the cabinet. She took out a small bottle of wine with its little bowl and carried it to the curtains. After roping the curtains apart she opened the Frankish doors and carried the wine out.
She glanced around the gardened balcony for trouble and found none. She set down her wine onto a glass and iron table and looked out at the waking city. Already the airships were floating past her hotel. The skybridges were full of bustling crowds going about their business. She looked down at the multiple streets full of horses and horseless carriages moving around like ants.
She looped parts of her hair behind her ears and peeked at the rising sun. Already the warm air was becoming hot, a rare welcome after many decades of cool summers and colder winters. She breathed it in. She allowed the rising orb to bathe her body in golden heat.
She turned to a little marble sink, carved like an oyster shell, being held by a smiling nymph with garlanded hair. She washed her hands and face as the water sparkled in the golden light. Now was the time for her morning rite.
She faced the sun and made her holy sign. “Kharis!” she said. She begun her song in Greek.
“Lo, I sing of Apollon Hecatios
From years past, a sacred custom to call upon ye.
O, evil-averting Paian, ye far-sighted governor of the World
Hail, Great Archer of established purifications, ye the first fruits
after the slaughter of mighty Python, fled ye to Karmanoia
the place of thy atonement and service.
Fly thy mighty arrows to the Pythons and the Typhoes,
O Lykeos, with thy broad quiver.
Incorruptible granter of oracles,
Governor of the immortal Gods and mortals of Earth.
Aye, I come to thee with pure hands and pure heart.
Grant me fortitude, lighten my thoughts,
and ban the dark Erebus darkening my soul.
To me, o, golden-lyred, far-shooting Apollon. Aid me resist the schemes of deceitful shades.
Release me from their infectious darkness,
de Paiean, de Paiean, de Paiean, de Katharsies.
Be gone, be gone all ye wicked
Be gone, be gone all ye wicked
Be gone, be gone all ye wicked
Be gone, be gone all ye wicked
Be gone, be gone all ye wicked
Be gone, be gone all ye wicked”
She picked up the little bottle and poured a libation into the small bowl.
She opened her eyes and glanced with love at the bright day. She picked up the bottle and sipped from it. “Kharis,” she whispered.
The bottle returned, the bowl emptied over the potted plants and washed, she went inside and to a wall. With a kick, she made a headstand and started lifting her body. “One. Two. Three,” she muttered. After fifty times, she visited the balcony and began her morning routine. A kick. A thrust of fists. A stretch here and there. A weighted ball flowing through the air. She worked her limbs until they sweat in the hot air. Again and again she repeated her movements until they became part of her flesh, ready for instinctual combat. Minutes passed. Her legs swung high. A stick on hands, she swung and thrust. Hours melted away as the sun rose over the haze.
A bell rang. She swung about, her stick at ready.
A little fairy was sitting with a proud air atop his fat pigeon next to the chain attached to the fairy bell by the parapets. Three-inches tall and made taller by his tall shako hat secured with its chin strap, the fairy man had a very long handlebar mustache that curved past his puffy cheeks. His pigeon cooed with nervous energy.
Suppressing her mirth, Dagny relaxed and stepped closer to the bird. “Good day, sir.”
“And a good day to you, ma’am,” he nodded. “Are you the Commander Dagny Mark of the Royal Army, late of Nicaragua?”
“It is I, sir.” She saw his eyes studying her figure with a frank admiration so she stood with her staff at her side and her other hand on her hips to give him an eyeful of her Spartan glory.
“You’ve shown a fine form, Commander.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“Of course, your sporting beauty cannot measure up to the the fair sex of our kind, sir.”
“I doubt any can measure up to the lascivious members of your race, sir. After all, your kind is closer to Nature than we men.”
“Quite true,” he nodded. “Easy, Lucy,” he reassured his bird.
“And you are?”
“I am Cabaiste Beag,” he answered with pride. “I have the honor of servicing Her Majesty as a Royal Fay Messenger and I come bearing a message for you, sir.”
“And what is this message? For a Fay to come flying here, this would be important.”
He shrugged his tiny shoulders, “I regret that I know not, sir. Only that I am to convey the cipher to you, Commander.”
She saw a small flash stick the size of a quarter coin bound to the bird’s leg. She claimed it. “Any more for me, Mr. Beag?”
“Only this, sir. And if I may speak freely, it’s a splendid thing you did in Nicaragua. You have the favor of all fay-folks in the kingdom.”
“I welcome your kind words, Mr. Beag,” she smiled. “And inform your kin that I will treasure your sentiment.”
“Will do, cheerio!” he touched his visor and smacked his lips to his bird. Lucy dove off and spread her wings away.
She took the cipher into her room and walked to her baroque framed desk mirror. She wiped the sweat off her face with a towel and then sat atop it. She inserted the stick into the side of the frame. Its reflection disappeared and a digital screen came to life. A royal seal popped up and began to play, “Commander Dagny Mark, greetings. By the order of the Royal Service, you are to report to the Leeds Castle, Kent, and to present yourself to Her Majesty the Queen at your earliest convenience.”
The recording ended.
She sat in her chair with a stunned look. She recovered and pulled out a desk drawer. She first recovered the Janus necklace and then the ribbon. She held up the ribbon and breathed deep its scent. Her eyes were far away with a question in them.
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