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Chapter 11
The Elemental
The light of the full moon nearly blinds me seconds before a wave of nausea and dizziness makes my legs buckle. Sion half carries me into a grove of trees, gently lowering me to the ground. I drop my head to my knees that are trapped beneath layers of skirt. His thumb kneads the back of my neck until the movement soothes the shudders wracking my body.
Closing my eyes helps as the world decelerates beneath me. “You said using the Veil would get easier.”
“I’ll teach you the proper way to cross when we’ve got more time before us.”
I hate to break it to him, but once we’re done with tonight’s riddle, he’s bound to his half of our promises to help me find Máthair. I’ll use that as leverage if I have to before busting through time again. I’ll still do my part. He can go collect clues on his own. I’ll help the soulfall by doing the figuring out from my side of reality.
A loud roar and then strains of music from pipes, fiddles, and drums sound on the far side of a cluster of trees. Party time 1500s style. I reach for Sion’s hand, desperate not to be separated from him. “Let’s get this over with.”
What I judge to be a block down a curved road, an old-fashioned tower house rises in front of the setting moon. Not old-fashioned yet, I remind myself. Very trendy for our current now.
Rivers of fast-moving, gray-black clouds stream above the boxy castle. The visual creep factor of this haunted-looking place contrasts with the firelight dancing inside and sounds of merriment pouring from arrow loops and windows. There’s even singing coming from a group of men manning the rooftop. It’s five hundred years ago, but trees are still trees, the grass beneath us still grass, people still sing. Maybe tonight won’t be as insane as I expect.
“Big doin’s at Leap,” I say. Sion’s face is a mask of serious, so I temper my lighthearted tone. “What do we do?”
“Shh,” he warns, and then whispers close to my ear. “Wait for backup and then go in.” We tuck deeper into the trees.
Am I in a cop show? What’s sixteenth century backup? A cartload of armor and broadswords?
The backup arrives, and my blood freezes. A ghoulish figure materializes in front of us. The smell of dust, dung, and food left too long in the pantry fills the air. Sion’s hand parks itself over my mouth in time to stifle my scream.
“Och, I told you to be slow about it, Pwyll.”
A skeletal face with eye cavities large enough to fit my fist through and a perfectly round hole where a nose should be hovers in silence. A full set of yellow teeth outlined with brown decay are set in the thing’s bony jaw. It flashes a perpetual grimace. Actually, more of a clench.
Sion slides his hand away from my lips. “Pwyll, this is Eala.”
The head, neck, and shoulders of Sion’s gruesome apparition nod ever so slightly in my direction. If I can call it a nod. The whole entity tilts forward in one hunk, individual pieces not moving independently. I swallow the ball of fear in my throat before it explodes into full terror. Underneath the collage of gasps, sobs, and trembles I’m trying to hide, I sense a low thrum in the air around us.
Holy shit, the bones are attempting to communicate.
Sion waves a hand at Skeletor. “Eala, Pwyll.”
I bob my head at the Pwyll thing. “Hello?” I’m talking to a skeleton with no moving parts who smells of moldy cheese. I ache to return to the campsite. This is too out there. I thought we’d be mixing with ale drinking clansmen, not an ancient set of animated bones. I was prepared to pretend I’m at an uber-realistic Renaissance Fair but not stuck in a crypt.
“Pwyll’s a bit of a timeless celebrity in these parts.”
I manage a shaky smile. “Oh?”
“The ole druid’s decided to hang around the place for a century or ten.”
The thrum gets louder, its pitch rising and falling. I think Pwyll the druid might be laughing.
Sion bumps my shoulder with his. “This boyo is still around in your time.”
My time. Not Sion’s time. Another question for my ever-growing list. When the moon frees itself from the cloud stream, the whole of Pwyll becomes clear. He’s skeleton from skull to toe bones. Not a Día de los Muertos dancing collection of bones. He’s wedged into a very narrow coffin that comes to a point just above his head.
“Folks hereabouts call him The Elemental.” Sion wiggles his fingers as his voice wavers in a cheesy horror movie cadence Pwyll appears to appreciate.
“You understand him?”
Pwyll gives me another ghost bob, as if I’d asked him about being able to understand Sion. I close my eyes for a long moment and think of Máthair. She’d probably be clapping her hands or dancing with the ancient druid, maybe exchanging spiritual uses for herbs. Weird worked for my grandmother. If enduring oddities allows me to see her, I’ll suck it up and power through the disturbing.
“He’s helped me as best he could all the times I’ve tried before.”
