Tales Of Corwin

That Wednesday night, Sandra took the evening off, and she invited Mark out for a date night at the tavern. She had thought a long time about the setting. The house felt like home to her now, and Brigit’s Hearth was a place most magical. In the end, however, she decided that she needed to be in the place she felt clearest and strongest, and that was here, in her own tavern, the place she had built up herself. She’d had her hair trimmed, too—not that Mark would notice—and she’d spent too much time dressing: fifteen minutes trying on clothes, and then ten minutes telling herself it didn’t matter what she wore, and then another fifteen minutes trying on clothes. In the end, she went with something that made her feel very confidently witchy: a black bodysuit with a deep purple tie-dye duster over it, and her favorite pentagram pendant at her throat. Mark arrived at around six, and Sandra was waiting for him. She looked fabulous, sitting there in the far corner of booth seven, with her gold pendant sparkling ent

“Okay then,” said Timi. She took a deep breath. “Well. According to my vision, there’s a way—a way for you to do the work you love, and stay in Corwin, and help to heal the world. And all we have to do is figure out what it is.” John laughed. “That Goddess didn’t give you the business plan?” “Nope. So, I guess we just have to work backwards. Picture yourself making a presentation to those people at Rogers Markham. You’re proposing a project that involves you setting up a lab in Corwin. What are you telling them?” “Well, if you put it that way, I do have something with me that they would really be interested in. I have my work on the super-strep pathogen. And I think I’ve isolated the antimicrobial agent in the sulfur shelf.” “Would they pay a lot, for something like that?” “Well … they’d be interested, but maybe not hugely interested. The world really needs new antimicrobials, but the sad truth is that there isn’t a whole lot of money for pharmaceutical companies in that kind of thing. It’s a kind of dru

And then it was the next afternoon, and Timi was waiting on the platform. And there was John Quick, in his long coat, with a laptop bag in one hand and a carry-on in the other. He paused in the door of the train, at the top of the steps, and took a deep breath. He looked alert, and happy to be home; she took that as a good sign. He saw her, then, and stepped down onto the platform, smiling uncertainly. She wished she could rush up and hug him, but her arms, like his, were full of baggage, so she only smiled and said, “It’s good to see you, John.” “Good to see you too, Timi. Are you, um, getting on here?” “Yes—and so are you, please. There’s no time to explain, but I’ve had a vision, and I’ve made a plan, and I’ve got a ticket for you, and you’ve just got to trust me on this.” “Really? I … I mean, of course, I’ll trust you. I just … where are we going?” “I’ll explain all about it. Just, let’s get on the train now—please?” “Okay, Timi.” He stood aside to let her board first. “Actually, we’ll board down t

She drew a breath, and everyone was silent, suddenly aware of the significance of what they were about to do. “Barefoot, if you please,” she said. They all took off shoes and socks. Sandra and Mark led the way to the basement stairs, and the Rose Feather Circle followed, quiet as mice. Down into the darkness they padded. They didn’t turn on the basement lights; Sandra had placed candles at intervals along the passage. The massive stone, the high ceilings, the still air, the gentle candlelight, the whisper of echoes—it didn’t seem gloomy, but it seemed, somehow, otherworldly. And ancient. Mark wondered just how old it was. The house dated to the late eighteen hundreds, he knew. But what had been on the site, before the house was built? When they reached the door to the chamber, Mark was surprised to see it standing open. He and Sandra stopped there, with the Circle behind them. “Did you leave the door open?” he asked softly. Sandra shook her head. “It’s a welcome, then,” Mark suggested. She nodded. Then

Mark and Sandra had so many other things on their minds that they were both surprised when they discovered a pressing commitment on the calendar: the Wiccan festival of Imbolc was only a few days away, and before that, they had a class to prepare. Their Wheel of the Year class for Imbolc had already been scheduled and advertised for the last day of January. For several days their kitchen table at home became their joint workspace, as they spent their free hours planning the class—together if their schedules permitted, separately if necessary. The weather cooperated, for once, and the evening of the class was clear and calm (though bitterly cold). They had a good turn-out at the church. They lit candles in the Fellowship Hall, and Sandra opened by talking about the ritual use of candles in her tradition: how they generally began rituals with a lighting of candles and closed them by extinguishing the flames. (“Christians do just the same,” she had said to Mark while they were planning. “They’ll see the connect

Upstairs, she roused Mark from his recliner. “Mark,” she said. “Mark Lucifer! I need you in the basement. Something strange is going on down there.” Mark’s eyes popped open. Her tone of voice must have told him something serious was afoot. “Just a minute,” he said. It took more than a minute, of course; Mark was unable to do anything quickly these days. He pushed aside the blanket and worked his way out of the chair and onto his feet. Sandra helped him into a zip-up fleece jacket—he never tried to pull anything on over his head these days—and he stepped into his slippers. Finally ready, he followed her down to the basement. “Okay,” he said, “What’s going on?” “Well: I was just tending to my flame, and thinking along, and I had a visit from my spirit friend. She led me to a strange place in the basement, a place I never knew was here. I hope it’s still there, or you’ll think I’m crazy.” She led him back to the place. The door was still there, thanks be. “There!” she said. “Has that door always been here?”

By the next morning, Sandra’s fever was gone, and she was feeling reasonably well—still a little shaky, but not in any need of help to go up and down stairs. Mark was another matter. He had slept fitfully: quite a lot, with the help of Lois’ concoctions, but always waking in pain and having to struggle just to get out of bed. When, at nine o’clock, he struggled out of bed once again, the day just got worse. He was trying to be grateful for his blessings, but reality kept intervening. First, predictably, every breath hurt, and every cough hurt a lot; sneezing was unbearable. Second, surprisingly, his house was full of strangers. Apparently, a number of neighboring families had availed themselves of his hospitality overnight. He first discovered this when he met old Mrs. Teep, who was coming out of his second-floor bathroom; she couldn’t get over having ridden on a snowmobile, at her time of life, and ominously she thanked him on behalf of “all of us.” When Mark got downstairs, he discovered that “all of us”

Sandra woke from a deep sleep and realized that she was drenched in sweat. Her PJs, her sheets, her pillow, all soaked. Even her hair seemed to be wet. Yuck. She sat up and flung the soggy covers off of herself. She felt light-headed, and weak as a kitten, but not quite so miserable as she had been, thank the Goddess. There was daylight in the room. The clock said three—but three o’clock of what day? And where was Mark? “Hello, Sandra,” said Lois McCutcheon from a chair in the corner. “Don’t stand up yet, child; let me have a look at you.” Lois set down her knitting and came over to the bed. “Ah, I can see that your fever has broken. Blessing on the squirrels, and may their fur never fall out!” “Sorry?” said Sandra. What did squirrels have to do with anything? “You’ve missed rather a lot, my dear. I’ll explain everything; but let’s take your temperature.” Lois popped the thermometer into Sandra’s mouth. “Ninety-nine five,” she announced. “So much better—but not quite back to normal. Try standing.” Lois hel

Mark put on all the winter gear he had, with an empty backpack underneath his coat. He went out the back door, closed it firmly behind him, and walked down the back steps onto the screened porch. The wind was roaring around the house, and a fine mist of snow was sifting in through the screens. He had admired the grandeur of the gale at other times; now, thinking of himself up in that vastly powerful air, it seemed not admirable but merely terrifying. What could he do up there, but get himself dashed to pieces? He went first down into the basement. He didn’t have any ski goggles, like Vicente had for snowmobiling, but he had some safety glasses down there, and he put them on underneath his ski mask. The mask pressed the glasses uncomfortably against his face, but it would have to do. Then he walked on back to Sandra’s basement room. Her spirit lamp was there, still burning on her altar table; the thought that her life’s measure might be no more than the measure of oil left in the lamp made him close his eyes

Mark stepped out of his front door the next morning and was immediately aware of the threat. There was some kind of odd reversal going on: it was harder to breathe outdoors than in, more claustrophobic under the sky than inside the house. He found that it took an effort even to lift his eyes to the heavens, where heavy-looking masses of grey cloud, pressing down low in the sky, seemed to weigh on his gaze. It was the sort of day that makes any sensible animal decide to remain in its den. But although the official forecast was dire, and the supermarket forecasts even more so, and although the news from neighboring states showed the power of the winter storm now bearing down on them, still everyone agreed that it wouldn’t hit until tomorrow, probably tomorrow night. Mark hunkered down in his jacket and headed over to the church, thinking with a pang of his warm bed, and the warm woman he had left sleeping there. Inside the church, Mark could ignore the skies and breathe normally again. It was a good day for w

Sandra was worried about Mark. He’d told her about Clare Tannerman. There had been a shuttered look about him—no telling what was going on behind his eyes, when they looked like that. Then he’d gone out to clear some snow. Two hours later, he was still at it, out in the bitter cold: snow blowing, shoveling, scraping; driveway, porch, steps, sidewalks. She’d left him to it, thinking that it might be one of those things he found therapeutic. But when, finally, she heard him come in, she went downstairs to find him sitting rigidly at the kitchen table, stripped down to his long underwear and his long-sleeved T-shirt, staring at his hands. His hands and face still looked red with cold, but his T-shirt was soaked with sweat. “Mark,” she said. “Are you okay?” “No,” he sighed. “You’re not blaming yourself about Mrs. Tannerman, are you? You did everything you could for her.” “No, I’m not blaming myself. Not really. If I’d gone there sooner—but who knows? I didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m just so damned depresse

Clare Tannerman’s tiny house was cold, and she was sitting in a rocking chair when they checked on her. She was shivering, and her speech was slurred. Her eyes looked feverish, but her skin felt cool—maybe too cool. There were plenty of blankets in the house, but she didn’t seem to be thinking clearly enough to put them on. Mark did it for her, and gave her hot cider to drink, while the lieutenant got on the radio to consult with the EMTs. Eventually, they decided it was too risky to try to get an ambulance out to her, so they bundled her up, carried her out to the Humvee, and took her to the ER that way. Mark left her there, promising to visit as soon as he could. Sandra had an adventure of her own, while Mark was out on that call. Ready for a break from the kitchen, she went out on the snowmobile with Vicente to bring a hot meal to Doris Shaughnessy. Doris was the oldest member of Mark’s church, and one of the most outgoing and friendly. She had struck up a conversation with Sandra the first time Sandra h

When the snow started Tuesday afternoon, Mark looked up the forecast. He hadn’t really been paying attention to it; it seemed pointless, somehow, when it was clearly just going to be one winter storm after another. But when he saw that they were forecasting sixteen inches, followed by blizzard conditions and record cold, Mark called the Corwin Police Department and asked to speak to Lieutenant Stedman. “Lieutenant, hi, it’s Mark Collins,” Mark began. “I’m not really sure about this, but I have a hunch—well, it’s more than a hunch, really. Just FYI, in case people need help during the storm, and in case there’s a major power outage?” “Go ahead, Mark. I’m listening.” “The Rose and Feather has a new generator. They’ll be warm, they’ll have power, and they’ll have hot food. Even if they’re not officially open, you can call Sandra, or me, and we’ll help. That goes for anybody on the force, in fact: if they need a snack or some hot coffee, they’re welcome to stop in. Sandra says, no charge for police officers du

Sunday, the day of New Year’s Eve, attendance at church was way down. There was always a bit of a fall-off after Christmas, but now it seemed to be more noticeable. Mark put it down to the strep throat that was going around. People were probably passing the contagion around in church. Mark tried to encourage people to stay home if they felt ill, but there were always some who were determined to come no matter how sick they felt. Charity came again, this time without her parents, and sat with Sandra during the service. She told Mark confidentially that she was really a “Cubs fan,” but that she liked his service better than the one at First Baptist, and this way her parents would maybe not worry about her so much. Mark thought that was probably only part of the explanation; the kid obviously wanted to spend time with Sandra. And, after all: who could blame her? That week, it seemed like half the town was down with the strep throat. Mark started calling it the super-strep—he’d been thinking of it as “Joni’s di

The following Wednesday night was fine and clear, and the bright moon was just beginning to wane. The Figgy Pudding Singers had a long outing, and they came back to Mark and Sandra’s house having sung themselves hoarse. John Quick had not sung with them, but had stayed behind, brewing something in the kitchen, something that he said would soothe their vocal cords. It was hot, creamy, and delicious, and very soothing—but it also seemed to cause people’s voices to jump up by at least an octave, for a minute or two after each swallow. Naturally, everyone found it hilarious, and nobody rested their voices. Judging from the look on John’s face, that was his plan all along. Mark found some sheet music online for “Christmas Don’t Be Late” by Alvin and the Chipmunks, and printed it out, and he played it at the piano while Otter, Star, and Rick Pearson performed it in their newfound ranges. Charity Jackson laughed so hard she cried. Mark was happy to see that she was feeling comfortable with the group; tonight, as wa

Shortly after seven, Mark stopped playing and went up to the lectern. “Good evening, my friends,” he began. “I’m so glad you’re here. I had a big service planned for tonight, with a children’s play and everything. But several members of the cast got sick at the last minute, so we had to cancel that. One or two of our soloists have also dropped out at the last minute—as you know, a lot of people have come down with the sore throat that’s going around. I have to confess that, with everything sort of falling apart at the last minute, I was worried about not being able to lead a good service for you tonight. But then this wise woman I know”—here he winked broadly at Sandra—“reminded me that we don’t have to make Christmas; we just have to let it in. And that’s what we’re going to do right now, with carols, and readings, and special music, and candlelight. Let’s start with this reading from the prophet Isaiah.” And Mark read the passage about how “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light,” and the

That was Thursday, the day of the Yule Circle. On Friday, the cold was intense, but the Figgy Pudding Singers ventured out again. Otter brought his silver flute, and Mark no longer wondered at Otter’s ability to play in the cold. As always, wherever they sang, they left Christmas/Yule cards offering emergency contact numbers for cold-weather assistance. By this time, Mark’s work for the church had intensified to a point just short of panic—because, of course, Sunday was Christmas Eve. There were two services to prepare for that day: the regular Sunday morning service and the Christmas Eve service. And that Christmas Eve service, in particular, demanded a lot of extra preparation. There was special music to be rehearsed, and there were special readings to be organized; and somehow, it always seemed to require endless phone-calling and emailing and texting, as Mark tried to coordinate all the participants. This year, it was worse than usual. What with the weather, and the sore throat that was going around, it

She lit a lantern and led the way up to the Circle room, and only the lantern in her hand kept her from dancing all the way. When everyone had settled in their places, sitting on cushions on the floor, she rose, picked up a snuffer from the central table, and began. “It is the season of winter,” she said, “the season of darkness, the season of cold.” Starting at her right, she extinguished the first candle in the circle. “Air: dry and bitter. Earth: hard as iron. Water: like stone.” She continued around the circle, slowly extinguishing the candles as she spoke. “Sun: low and distant. This is the longest night of the year, and these are the darkest days. The sun has grown weaker and weaker—only a fool would believe that it might grow strong again. The trees are bare—only a fool would believe that there is life down under ground. The robins and red-wing blackbirds are gone—only a fool would believe that they will ever return. Night has fallen.” Here, she extinguished the final candle of the circle, the one nex

Mark told Sandra his theory, but soon they had more pressing matters to worry about. That day, it had warmed up to just below freezing; the next day, all day long, it snowed heavily. School was dismissed at noon, and by evening most of the roads were impossible. The next morning, Thursday, was the Winter Solstice. Sandra jumped out of bed and looked out the window down Amber street—or rather, down along where Amber street used to be. This morning, the road was not only unplowed, but invisible, completely hidden under wind-carved drifts of snow. She jumped back into bed, pulled up the covers, and snuggled up to Mark. “Blessed Yule!” she said to him. “We’re snowed in!” “Blessed Yule,” repeated Mark. “To be snowed in with you—that’s already as blessed a Yule as I can imagine. And hey—we get presents, too!” They had agreed to exchange presents on Yule, and again on Christmas morning. “Presents after breakfast,” said Sandra. “I’ll make you pancakes; then you can open your present.” “I can think of one present

The next day, Mark was working in his office, still tweaking the sermon and the service for Sunday. It was the third Sunday of Advent, coming up: Gaudete Sunday, the Sunday of Joy. Personally, that was no problem: he was feeling pretty darned joyful about a lot of things right now. But Gaudete Sunday was always a bit problematic, because he knew some of his people were struggling with loneliness and hard memories during Advent. And for those people, the lectionary wasn’t offering much help this week. The Apostle Paul was blithely telling them to “rejoice always,” while at the same time John the Baptist was calling them a “brood of vipers.” Mark sighed and wondered (not for the first time) whether there might be a job where you could serve God, but still take a couple of weeks off at Christmas. When the intercom buzzed, it came as a relief. “There’s a Mr. Jackson, Max Jackson, on line one,” said Mrs. Fludd. Mark considered. “Do I know Max Jackson? Do you?” “No, I don’t know him,” said Mrs. Fludd. “There are