Emerald Magic_ Great Tales of Irish Fantasy - Andrew M. Greeley [72]
Miki grimaced.
“And then there was the time I was downtown, and he vanished all the stitches and buttons in what I was wearing. It’s the middle of a snowstorm, and suddenly I’m standing there trying to cover myself with all these pieces of cloth that once were clothes.”
“And you’ve never said anything about it.”
I gave her a humorless smile. “Well, it’s not something I want to shout out to the world either.”
“Good point,” she said. She paused for a moment, then added, “We’re just going to have to find a way to turn the little bugger off.”
I didn’t want to feel the hope that rose at her words, but I couldn’t help it.
“Do you know a way to do it?” I asked.
She shook her head, and my frail surge of hope fled. But that was Miki. Determined, tough.
“Only that doesn’t mean we can’t find out,” she said. “You wouldn’t know this butter spirit’s name, would you?”
I shook my head.
“Too bad, but I suppose that would have been too easy.”
“What use would his name be?”
“There’s power in names,” she said. “Don’t you pay attention to the stories? Just because it’s all shite doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Right.”
I was having trouble relating to our conversation. I mean, to be having it with Miki, of all people.Who knew that behind her disdain, she was such an expert?
“When’s the tithe due?” she asked.
“April 30.”
She gave a slow nod. “Cally Berry’s night.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“They call her the Old Woman of Gloominess. She’s the blue-skinned daughter of the sun and rules the world between Halloween and Beltane. On the last day of April she throws her ruling staff away and turns into stone for the next half of the year—why do you think there are so many stone goddess images louting about in Ireland? But on that night, when she gives up her rule to the Summer Goddess, the faeries run free—like they do on Halloween. Babies are stolen and changelings left in their cribs. Debts and tithes are paid.”
“Lovely.”
“Mmm. I wonder if we have a gig that night . . .”
She took out her Palm Pilot and looked up our schedule.
“Of course we do,” she said. “We’re in Harnett’s Point at the Harp and Tankard, from the Wednesday through Saturday. Close enough to Newford for trouble, though I guess distance doesn’t seem to be a problem with him, does it?”
I shook my head.We were halfway across the country in Arizona at the moment, and that hadn’t stopped him.
“Actually, that can work to our advantage,” she went on. “I know some people living close to Harnett’s Point who might be able to help.We’ll put together some smudgesticks . . . let’s see . . . rosemary, rue, blackthorn, and hemlock. That’ll be pungent to burn indoors, but it’ll keep him off you.”
“You really think you can stop him?” I asked. “I mean, it’s not just the butter spirit. There’s the Grey Man, too.”
She nodded. “Old Boneless. Another of those damned hard men that we Irish seem to be so good at conjuring up, both in our faeries and ourselves. But I have a special fondness for the bashing of hard men, Conn, you’ll see.Now tell me, how intimate were you and Nita?”
“Jeez, that’s hardly—”
She held up a hand before I could finish. “I’m not prying. I just need to know if you have a bond of flesh or just words.”
“We were . . . very intimate.Until he pulled this allergy business.”
She gave me another one of her thoughtful nods.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“Nothing.Not yet. I’m just putting together the pieces in my head. Setting them up against what I know and what I have to find out.”
“Not that I’m ungrateful,” I said, “but you seem awfully familiar with this kind of thing for someone so dead set against it.”
The grin she gave me was empty of humor. It was a wolf ’s grin. Feral.
“It’s the first rule of war,” she told me. “Know your enemy.”
War, I thought. When did this become a war? But maybe for her it was. Maybe it should be that way for me.
“So what’s Nita doing these days?”Miki asked.
“She’s a