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After a few hours I had me a nice tree.  But it needed coloring, so we start again at the bottom–create a texture for the needle with a few little random variations of green and brown, give it a slight shine and assign it to the top of the needle.  Since fir needles are lighter on the bottom, I took the same texture used on top, and lightened it slightly, and assigned that to the bottom.   So now I have nice green two-sided needles, and I sit and wait while the color is populated to all the gazillion other needles that landed on my tree.   Then I textured the twig, and the branch, and finally the trunk.  For the trunk I used one of the photographs I took of a fir tree, and borrowed the bark, tiled it and applied it.

Yes all this is a lot of work, but it’s what I do. I love the nitty gritty and the quest for realism — even when all this minute detail is obfuscated within the greater composition of the image. I have found that no matter how realistic I make the big parts, and the shadows and such, it’s the small things that will ruin the image.   And I may use this tree other places in close up where I want all that minute detail to show.  Realistically, though, I will more than likely use the tree as part of a landscape, where you will never ever see the subtle little details I’ve painted so carefully.

Now that I had my tree, it needed a place to grow.  Now, for the landscape, I took an entirely opposite approach to the texturing.  I wanted winter, so I started with a simple blue/white solid color, and speckled it up a little bit for texture, and then relied completely on the lighting to give it life.  I created a fractural landscape (bumps) and stuck it under the trunk of the tree.   I made a duplicate of my little hill, and placed it farther away on my plane.  (Working in a 3D world is so cool! I get to be God and put the mountains where I want them).

So, to recap so far, I have a very simple image.  Two bumps and a tree.     Now the hard part - the sky.  No matter how lovely your ground elements are, it is the sky, clouds, and light that make the picture real.  This step is crucial. Too much sun, harsh shadows will obliterate the mood.  Not enough and everything blurs away.

For this image I was going for the one moment.     It is winter, and at least a week or more since the last snowfall. The wind and sun have released the tree from its overcoat of snow, but it is soon to be covered by the next storm the red clouds of dawn are announcing.

I neglected to mention the software: Vue 6, Carrara, and Paint Shop Pro.  I was listening to classical music on the radio, drinking coffee and eating cookies.  The cat was on the windowsill above me chasing a moth, and the moon was smilling at me through the window.  All these elements were part of the creation, and are forever imbedded in the image for me.

Enjoy.

“Let her go!” William growled, holding tightly to the reins. He was barely aware of the stinging in his palm or the blood that was falling from the cut.

The blade flashed again as the hunter swung, slicing the rein from William’s grasp. Before he could react the sword flashed again, coming to rest on the fabric of William’s tunic at the center of his chest.

“You’ve cost me a lot of precious time, boy. Time better spent on more … lucrative quarry than you!”

William forced himself not to react in haste to his situation. “Time? Is that all you’re interested in? Time? What could that possibly cost—”

“Silence!” The blade flicked upward, coming to rest at William’s throat.

William closed his mouth.

“That’s better. Frightened? I swear I can hear your heart racing like a … a rabbit caught in a snare.” The hunter chuckled, mirthlessly. “Well fear not, my little rabbit, you shall keep your pelt for now, so long as you do as I say.”

“And what would that be?” William asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

“Lead me. I grow weary of the maze of this forest.”

“Lead you? Where?”

“To her, fool! You know where your accomplice has sequestered my bride and you will lead me to them!”

“I have no idea what you mean,” William replied, quietly. “I have no accomplice. Who are you referring to, sir?”

The blade dipped suddenly, slashing open the front of William’s tunic, barely avoiding his flesh, before coming to rest again against the divot beneath his throat.

“Do not dare insult me, boy! I saw you in the square. I saw you call to the dog who carried the ungrateful wench away! I followed you out of Aberdoir and into these damned woods. You’re following his trail — that much is clear — and you will now lead me.”

“I don’t know where they went.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true, I’ve lost my way just as you have.”

“Then you truly are an inconsequential rabbit.” Adrian drew closer, his ferret-like grin growing wider.

William felt the cold touch of the blade under his chin. He held his breath and braced himself for a strike, when he sensed a slight hesitation in Adrian’s threat.

What is he waiting for?

“No, you may keep your flesh, my young friend. There must be something of value to your hide for Lord Thomas to be interested in your well being … what would that be? Could you possibly be the younger brother he’s spoken of? Yes, the resemblance is plausible.”

William knew perfectly well why Thomas would be interested in his welfare — a codicil in his father’s will that would prevent him from inheriting the whole of the Fylbrigge fortune should William not live to twenty-one. William considered identifying himself, then thought better of it. He knew Adrian was displeased with his brother at the moment, and did not relish the prospect of being used for ransom.

He looked Adrian in the eye and replied calmly, “You are mistaken, sir. I’ve never met him.”

“Do not think me a fool, boy!” Adrian growled, pressing the blade closer to the flesh. “You may be valuable to me after all. If you are the brother I’ve heard tell of, then you are indeed more use to me in your flesh.”

As the two stared at each other in silence, William’s mind raced, searching for a way out of the predicament he was in. Think Fylbrigge! What did Sean teach me about disarming? Use my weapon … I don’t have a weapon! The staring continued, Adrian leering, as though he were savoring the fear William knew he was showing. Moments lingered as they held their frozen tableau, the forest growing silent with the dying of the breeze.

It was then he heard the soft nickering of a horse to the not too distant north, beyond the thicket. Hawk! Sean! William looked quickly toward the source of the sound, inadvertently betraying his thought. Adrian sneered and turned his head slightly to the sound, his grin shining like the teeth of a demon in the moonlight. He lowered his blade and released the bridle. But before William had a chance to take a breath of relief, Adrian whirled and brought the hilt of the sword crashing against the side of his head.

He fell from Star, dazed. While he lay on the ground watching the shadowed rider gallop away, the forest began to fade into black silence. He had no sense of time passing as he lay there but it seemed only a heartbeat had passed when Star nudged him with her muzzle and he opened his eyes. It was then he heard the frantic whinny of furious horses, and the sound of a woman’s scream coming from the direction that Adrian had just gone.

“Burn the witch, burn the witch!”

The chanting echoed like wardrums against his scull as William was led past the crowd. He bit down against the bridle and closed his eyes, willing himself not to hear the jeers and catcalls made by people he once considered friends, hoping instead to hear the voice of his lost brother. Are you still with me?

“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

Sean? Where are you? No answer found him. He looked at the faces in the crowd and in his half delirium, saw them stretched and distorted, hideously disfigured and scarred, just as they had always appeared in his dragon dreams. My God, Sean, please don’t leave me alone now.

“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

No! This isn’t real. It’s a dream. Right? It’s always only been a dream before. He had thought he had prepared himself for the procession to the meetinghouse, but his last shred of hope left him when he saw the structure that was readied for him. It’s a dream. It’s not real. God, it can’t be real. I can change it. He closed his eyes, willing the crowd to vanish as he had done so many times in his nightmares. He opened his eyes, hoping to see them gone; instead he was confronted by more gleeful, ugly faces who seemed to take delight in calling his attention to the piles of kindling and peat that surrounded the platform and stake.

“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

I shall not have to face it. Ian promised . . .  Laurel promised, I shall not have to face it . . .  Blessed Mother and Father, please . . .  I meant no harm . . .  He closed his eyes against the sight and turned his head the other way as far as the collar would allow. When he opened his eyes again, the face he saw was Edward’s. Father! It’s not too late.
Please . . .  you can stop it. Speak up, Father . . .  He tried to speak through the bridle but found it impossible to make more than a muffled moan. He looked at Edward, pleading with his eyes for Edward to say something to him.

But Edward stood in his typical silence, offering no words of encouragement nor comfort. William would even welcome words of anger—anything, would be better than the stoic silence Edward maintained. Could it be that he still did not believe what was happening? He said he believed his eyes; can he not see me? He knew his wounds were mostly concealed beneath his clothing but, still, could Edward not see the gash on his face or the bridle? Was this confounded cart not enough? He closed his eyes against Edward’s silence while the hunters pulled him through the meetinghouse doors. Father, why must you still remain silent?

Thomas slipped silently into Stonehaven Chapel, obediently dipping his fingers in the font of holy water. “In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti.
Amen.”

He knelt in the first pew before a bank of votive candles. Assuming an appropriate posture of prayer, he waited. The pungent aroma of incense mingled with the candle smoke, and the dank smell of the stone walls helped him affect the convincing air of melancholy he would need for his mission.

He glanced up at the stern, intricately carved faces of the marble statues that surrounded him. For a moment, he felt the queer sense that the cold, hollow eyes had all turned to look on him. Did they know what he was about? Did they judge him? Did it matter?

He glanced upon a statue of the Holy Mother cradling Her newborn son. The artisans had cleverly—or morbidly—arranged her gaze to fall not upon the sleeping child in her arms, but upon an older version of herself across the way, posed with the corpse of Her son lain across Her lap. Would She judge him?

High above him, the crucifix hung from the vaulted ceiling on long iron chains, its shadow dominating every part of the sanctuary. The lifeless stone eyes of the Christ figure stared down. He would most certainly judge me. Thomas lowered his head into his supplicant hands, blotting out the judgmental eyes of the statues. They’re stone. Wrought by human hands. Easily broken.

He had come to clear his mind; to contemplate the wheel of events he was about to turn; to weigh the implications, the ramifications, and count the souls that would be affected. How many? He had not worked it through that far. Did he have the wit and strength to carry it through? Did he calculate all there was for him to gain? Indeed, all that could be lost? He knew at this moment he had time to reconsider. Time to abandon all thought of what he was about to do. He could simply bow, intone a benediction, turn, and leave the chapel.

Then again, he was not one who quit easily. There was power and wealth to be had, and he wanted it. Ogham would pay him well to gain control of Sutherland. Wesley and Drunbalk would certainly find it worth his price should he help them dissolve the treaties William had negotiated. Ambros Woodhall had become a laughingstock after William tricked him and would be more than happy to line Thomas’s pockets just for spite.

He grinned, pleased with the simple solution he concocted to bring all these untidy ends neatly to the middle. He marveled at how easy it would be. He had taken the seed that he and Bryndah had planted and nurtured it to a full and terrible blossom. Enchant, did you say?

He folded his hands and found the prayer that suited him. He did not ask God to tell him what was right or what was just, but only prayed to win. He offered no prayer for the life he was about to tear apart, but beseeched the Prince of Peace for his own protection and gain, with no sense of the perverse irony of his meditation.

With bowed head and clasped hands, Thomas ran the gamut through his mind again. He knew the hour was late and at sunset he would have to be in the great hall of Drumoak for Edward’s convocation. To miss that meeting would be ruin before he began. He needed to see the response of the nobles to judge who he could best use in his plans. He was fairly certain William would not miss this opportunity to wave the banner of his favorite personal cause. Thomas was counting on it, in fact, when he realized the obvious flaw in his newly hatched plan. The nightshade powder.

If William succumbed to the nightshade, there would be no need for Woodhall or the others to give him so much as a farthing, let alone align with him. Surely it’s too late to prevent William from drinking. Thomas wondered if Bryndah was wrong about the dose she had given his brother. Perhaps he would not drink any of it. And if he did, someone would likely find him in time to prevent his untimely demise. He squeezed his fingers together and allowed a small prayer to that effect. Dear God, allow my brother to be spared this day. Outside his prayer, he continued his thought: I need to use him.

He waited in silence, listening for the sound of the bishop’s footsteps as his cue to begin his performance. When at last he heard the vestry door swing open and the muffled footfalls of the cleric, Thomas began to utter his prayer in a loud, grief-stricken voice. “Please, Father in Heaven, why . . . ?”

Bishop Dunkirk placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “My son, why do you seek the divine guidance of the Lord?”

Before answering, Thomas looked to the stained glass windows depicting biblical heroes and tales. His eyes lingered on an image of a man with a stone clenched in his raised hand, the other hand gently resting on the shoulder of his brother as he tended his crop. I certainly am not my brother’s keeper. He drew in a long, deep breath and slowly turned his doleful face to Dunkirk.

“Your Grace, I request to receive the sacraments as I fear a dreadful evil has befallen me.”

“Of course, my son.”

“Hey! That’s my foot!”

“No it isn’t, it’s my foot!”

“Who’s elbow is this! Get it out of my face before I bite it”

“I can’t see!”

“There’s no lights on, dumbass.”

“There’s no need for name calling…someone find the switch.”

“What be a switch?”

“The. . .who is that?”

“Who dared touch my –”

“OW!”

A sudden hollow sounding thud brings the voices to silence. There is a crack in the air, and an echoed voice says:

“Spot one.”

A single bright light comes from above to shine on a large black box – a crate with hinges on one side, and a large padlock on the other. The voices continue from inside the box:

    ”Did you hear that?”

    ”Someone’s out there”

    ”Hey! Is someone there?”

    ”Let us out!”

The box begins to rock, and shudder, the padlock banging against the latch. Again the voice from afar speaks:

    ”Crane up.”

A motor whirs into life somewhere off stage, accompanied by the rattling of chains being drawn across the floor and over the box. The box is lifted, swaying back and forth as the unseen crane lifts it higher above the nondescript floor.

    ”We’re moving!”

    ”Hold still!”

The whir silences, the chains jerk with the sudden loss of movement.

    ”What’s happened?”

    ”Get your elbow out of my ear!”

    ”Shh!”

    ”You shh!

The light circles the box, casting a beam on every corner.

    ”It’s scary in here.”

    ”Shh, sit with me, wee one.”

    ”Is that you?”

    ”Back in the bughouse after this one. Geez louise I can’t cop a break to save my ass. . .I SAID GET YOUR ELBOW OUT OF MY. . .”

The engine whirrs back to life with a new authority as the crane carries the black box to the left, then to the right, setting it swinging, swinging, in an ever growing arc.

    ”Oh no!”

    ”She. . . she can’t do it again!”

    ”But we’re not written yet!”

    ”Make her stop!”     

The speaker cracks once more.

    ”Let it go.”

The box reaches its fullest arc, but instead of swinging back, it flies free of the tether, hurdling out to a black void of space.

* * *

“You can’t do it that way,” the lad argued.

“Why not? It’s my world. I can do anything I want in it,” I argued in reply.

“But, you can’t just. . . shove them off into space that way. It’s not right!”

I laughed. “You make them sound like real people.”

“Well? Aren’t they?” The look on his young face, was pitiful. One would have thought he’d just been told that Christmas was cancelled by the droop in his jowls.

“Real? No, darling. That’s why it’s called fiction. I can let them go.”

He stared, stricken. “No. You can’t. It’s. . . murder.”

“They’re not real.”

“They are too!”

“I made them all up!”

“You made them real for me.”

I had no reply.

“You made me care for them. Every one of them, and it’s not fair to just. . . toss them off into oblivion, locked up in some old black box that way.”

He was right, though I could not admit it to him. But did he realize how badly it hurt for me to gather them all and push them into the black box in the first place? Could he know what it was like for me to hear them crying out night after night while I slept? To hear them screaming to be brought back into the light, to be made flesh again? He couldn’t know what it was doing to me to know they were languishing in the box, while I struggled for a way to bring them back.

“What can I do about it?” I ask, helpless to keep the shaking from my voice.

“Let them play, mom. Open the lock.”

“But I’ve already sent them into space.”

“So. Isn’t it your universe?”

He’s so clever. I could smack him.

He grinned, producing a silver reel and a rod. “Go ahead. Cast.”

“What if I can’t catch them?”

“You don’t have to. They’ll catch you.”

* * *

    ”Hey, that’s my foot.”

    ”Shh! There’s. . . a light.”

    ”We be goin’ home!”

    ”Hold on. . .”

* * *

House lights up. . . and. . . Action.

The walk from the garden to the grand doors of the house had never been especially interesting, but everything changed with Arcana’s newborn life. Gabriel lingered up the path, allowing his mind to wander from his guests for the moment, marveling at the beauty of the setting sun as it played on the deep green-blue leaves of the holly that lined the walk. He reached for a brightly colored blossom, remembering that Malus had called it ‘flower’ and that one should always stop to smell them — though Gabriel had neglected to ask how one went about ’smelling’ things. I have so much to learn of this humanity. He touched the blossom, delighting in the softness of the petals. He made to grab the holly leaves to see if they, too, were as soft as the flowers, then jumped back startled when one of the thorny leaves stuck the end of his finger.

“Zounds! What beast of a bush be this?” he yelled to the sky, then stood mesmerized by the tiny red pearl forming at the tip of his finger. “Well now, I believe I know what this is,” he sighed, examining the droplet. “The stuff of human kind . . . the giver and taker of life — blood of the veins.” A breeze caressed his face as if in reply. “I’m human . . . I do not think I shall ever fully believe . . . I suppose I must.” Instinctually, he drew his finger to his mouth and sucked off the little red dab, before continuing up the walk.

It was when he reached the bottom of the stairs that another curious sensation crept over Gabriel — the strange and sudden urge to draw in long, deep breaths while stretching his mouth to a ridiculous size. He paused at the bottom of the front stairs, leaning on his walking stick, as once again, unbidden, he felt the strange little pop in his ears before his jaw stretched and his lungs sucked in what seemed to be gallons of air. “Oooooh mmmyyy!” He blinked, shaking the sensation away as best he could. “What in the name of Armageddon — ”

“I believe it is called . . . uh, a yowl, sir.”

Gabriel looked up to see Malus standing in the opened doorway, beckoning him to follow. Malus walked briskly along the polished marble corridor, speaking over his shoulder as he led the way.

“No, no, that’s not quite it. Oh, yes, a yawn. That’s it. Yawn.”

“A yawn? Is it normal?” Gabriel asked, trying to keep pace with Malus.

“Well, from what I’ve been able to tell from my observations, it is something humans seem to do quite frequently. Mostly when they are fatigued, but often when they are engaged in a particularly tedious task, or when they’re not very interested in the person they happen to be conversing with.”

“They do?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, it seems a bit odd, don’t you think? To have your jaw crank itself open as wide as the abyss?”

“I find much about human beings to be odd, yawning is the least of it. Ah. Here we are, your chamber has been made ready.” Malus stopped before a set of grand double doors that didn’t seem at all familiar to Gabriel.

“Chamber?”

“Your bed chamber, sir.” Malus pushed the doors open and swept into the room, crossing to the window and pushing aside a voluminous green drapery.

Gabriel stood in the entry curiously surveying the room that was filled with many strange furnishings. He knew what the tables and chairs were of course, and the chests filled with drawers, and the shelves lined with tomes, but the largest and most dominating piece of furniture was completely new to him — a cushioned platform of sorts, surrounded by posts, with folds upon folds of the same green fabric that hung at the windows.

“It is called a bed,” Malus explained as he turned down the coverlet and fluffed a pillow.

Gabriel ran his fingers over the silky draperies, transfixed by the way the light played upon the folds and ripples. “It is very pretty … ah, is this the place I will, …” he paused, searching for the word he wanted, “… sleep?”

Malus smiled and bowed. “Very good, sir.”

“And has each of our guests been provided with a … bed?”

“Of course. I must say they are a curious lot,” Malus said as he continued preparing the bed. “I took great pains to put each at ease with the place. Yet they remain suspicious and . . . ungrateful.”

“They are strange to Arcana, Malus. Patience. Is that not what you always advise for me?”

“Indeed,” Malus agreed, with a trace of a smile. “Now then, it is time for you to sleep. I believe the custom is that you should lie down here,” he indicated the now exposed bottom sheet, “and place your head here, on this.”

Gabriel pressed his hand onto the pillow, allowing it to sink deeply into the feathers. “Oh, that is pleasant.” He sat upon the edge of the bed and swung his feet up. “Like this?” he asked, slowly lowering himself against the pillow.

Malus frowned, placing a hand to his chin.

“Am I not lying down?”

“Oh, yes, but something is … ah! You are still dressed.”

Gabriel looked down to his garments. “Are they inappropriate?”

“For sleeping, yes. Fear not.” Malus hurried across the room to an ornate cabinet, and swung wide the door. “Ah yes, this is what this if for. I wondered what it could possibly be since it is so different from all the rest of the clothing. But it makes perfect sense.” He pulled a voluminous white frock from the cupboard and shook it out. “This, I believe, is called a nightshirt. Humans wear them for sleeping in. They are . . . ” he turned the garment front to back examining it, “… less confining.”

Gabriel saw no reason to argue with the man. After all it was Malus who had traveled beyond Arcana to observe these human creatures in detail. He would know better than Gabriel what a night shirt would be. As he stripped off the confining clothing he’d been wearing, he realized for the first time how truly restricting and uncomfortable it was to wear cloth and fabric against his newly sensitive skin. The shoes, in particular, were a great relief to shed. He stretched his toes and flexed them into the deep pile of the carpet, reveling in the tenderness of his soles. Trousers and shirt, shed he felt the breeze from the window brush against his newly exposed flesh.

“Oh. . . Malus, would that you could feel . . .”

Malus only watched, waiting patiently for Gabriel to reach for the night shirt. But Gabriel found he wanted nothing to come between himself and the breeze. “Must I?”

Malus put the nightshirt back where it came from, and closed the cupboard. “I see no reason. The whole idea in sleep, is to be comfortable while you do it. I quite agree it seems a silly habit these humans have, draping themselves in all this . . . stuff.”

“But you are wearing … a stuff.”

“Only because they expect it. Apparently it is frowned upon to allow your form to be exposed, though I cannot for the existence of me understand it. We are as we are, as I’m certain they are too.” He pulled the coverlet completely off the bed, setting it on a seat on the far side of the room. “After all, the beasts of the forests and fields, and creatures of the water and sky do not weave cloth in which to dress. No, they are content with the form they were given. And wiser for it, says I. What has clothing brought to humanity but yet another complication and means if division? There you are, all ready. Now, I believe you are ready to lie down.”

“Thank you, oh yes, it does feel much better.” Gabriel laid back, his head sinking into the feather pillow. “Oh, this. . . this is truly — ” Again, the unexpected stretching of his face and the quick intake of breath surprised him. “Am to experience this … yawning … often?”

Malus shrugged. “Probably.”

Gabriel folded his arms over his stomach and felt a sudden wave of fatigue wash over him. “What happens now?”

“You will sleep, I imagine.”

“Sleep. I’ve often wondered about it. How is it done, Malus?”

“I believe it just. . . happens. You close your eyes, and become limp, and unaware.”

Gabriel closed his eyes and completely relaxed. “Am I asleep?”

“No, I do not believe so.”

“How can you tell?”

“You’re still talking.”

“Does that stop?”

“Oh, yes. You will become completely oblivious to your surroundings.”

Gabriel opened his eyes, alarmed. “Will it hurt?”

“I do not think so,” Malus said, gently.

“How will I know when I am done sleeping?”

“You will awaken. Just as our guests did in the garden.” Malus placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and smiled kindly. “Fear not.”

“Thank you, Malus. What shall I ever do without you?” Gabriel closed his eyes after another deep yawn. “What. . . shall . . .”

Malus stepped quietly to the door, looking back for a moment to Gabriel. He tilted his head at the odd site of his master lying still. “So human,” he said to himself, then slipped quietly from the room. “I suppose I should have warned him about those things called dreams.”

“You really expect us to just sit—” Maggie began, but was silenced when Malus spoke up.

“Madam, I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to prepare this meal, and to see that you want for nothing during your stay in Arcana. A bit of civility on your part is small thanks to ask.”

“Excuse me?” Maggie glared.

“Please,” Janie placed her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. Maggie pulled away sharply, her jaw tense around her tightened lips. “Please,” Janie implored, reaching again to Maggie’s arm, her almond eyes welling with tears. “No more fighting, please?”

Maggie sighed, the fight seemingly drained from her by Janie’s touch on her arm. She took a quick visual survey of the others, and noting that they had all wandered toward the table without quarrel, she relented, giving Malus a noncommittal nod. “Yeah, sure. No more fighting.”

That one will be the life . . . death of me, Gabriel thought, as he took his place at the northern point, watching as each of his guests chose a place at the table. Seth was the first to find a place, choosing the seat set with terracotta plate and cup to Gabriel’s right. Propped against the simple glass water goblet was a card painted with the image of a young man dressed in buckskins and barefoot, skipping along the edge of a stream, a fishing pole resting on one shoulder, his catch jauntily swinging from a string in the other. Seth examined the painting for a moment, then turned the card to see the other side was blank. He shrugged, placing it back against the goblet, then slipped the flaxen, rustic-looking napkin from its clay ring and spread it politely on his lap, all the while keeping his head bowed, his long hair concealing his face.

Spenser chose the place to Seth’s right, offering the boy a comforting pat on the shoulder, as he took his seat. “Very nice,” he said, admiring the rich brown and green plate at the place he’d chosen. He traced the gold tipped edge of the plate, noting the iconic animal shapes painted into the border. “Swahili?” he asked. Gabriel smiled, tipping his head in response. “Very nice,” Spenser repeated, then picked up the card that was placed at his goblet. His depicted a tall, dark man, garbed in a colorful dashiki, a long wooden staff in one hand, a lantern in the other as he gazed onto a rich lush valley where gazelles and lions were co-existing. He pointed his card out to Seth, commenting, “The Peaceable Kingdom,” then placed it back against the goblet.

Yes, well done Malus. At least two of them have found a place to their liking. “Please,” Gabriel said, looking up to the remaining guests, “I’m sure there is a place for each . . . sit, my friends. Sit.”

Janie gave Maggie a quick pat on the hand and led her to the table. “Why not,” Maggie muttered, glancing around the table. “I’ll take this place I guess,” she said, taking the seat to Spenser’s right, nearly directly opposite Gabriel’s seat. She gave a cursory survey of her place setting of ruby red, the plate and cup each adorned with a four-sided knot-work figure rendered in gold. She made a scoffing little chuckle at the card propped on her glass depicting a statue of a woman wearing a blindfold and holding a scale. “Cute,” she mumbled, haphazardly dropping the napkin of finely tatted lace to her lap.

Janie took the next seat, sitting quietly and looking small in her seat. “Oh!” she gasped quietly, tracing the delicate pattern on the plate at her place. “Cherry blossoms,” she explained to Maggie, pointing out the pattern. “My grandmother had a set of china with nearly this same pattern. It was very old . . . had been handed down from mother to daughter for seven generations . . . until most of it was lost during the war . . . ” she admired the cup, noting the lack of handles, just as her grandmother’s set had been. She picked up the card at her place, smiling at the delicate image painted in muted tones of apricot and pink and outlined with wisps of blank ink depicting a lovely woman holding an infant, and dressed in a flowered kimono. “So delicate and so strong . . . ” She showed the card to Maggie, then pulled it back, almost protectively when Maggie rolled her eyes.

“May I see?” Elizabeth asked, taking the seat next to Janie. Janie held the card to show, pulling it back when Elizabeth went to take it from her hand for a closer look. “That is pretty,” Elizabeth said, gently, then turned to her own place. “Well would you look at this. I’ve not seen one of these since I left New Orleans,” she said to no one in particular marveling at the bleeding heart emblazoning the dish and cup. “Momma Joe would snap this up for her collection that fast if she saw this.”

“It’s lovely,” Janie commented, though her brow wore a severe crease at the image of the heart skewered by a sword.

Elizabeth laughed lightly, then reached for the card that was set at her place. Elizabeth’s card, slightly bigger than the others, looked like it had been rendered in waxy crayons, and depicted a smiling, dark-skinned woman wearing a colorful caftan, a matching turban wrapped high on her head. She held an ornate chalice above her head as if in offering. There was a serpentine symbol on the chalice, that seemed familiar, as though she’d seen it recently, then realized it was the same symbol that Gabriel was wearing on his cravat.

Gabriel traced his finger along the twisted serpent pin. Elizabeth blushed and quickly looked away. She knows I know her thought . . . interesting.

Kohler was settling into his spot now, the seat to Gabriel’s immediate left. “This is Ming!” he marveled holding his cup close to look at it.

“You have an excellent eye,” Gabriel said.

“The cup alone is worth a fortune at auction, but the plate, too . . . do you realize what you have here?” Kohler asked, a grin curling the side of his mouth.

“It is a cup and a plate,” Gabriel replied, lifting a brow. “Is it not to your liking? Malus bring something else for Mr. Kohler would you?”

“No! No . . . it’s . . . I like it very much.” He set the cup down and picked up his card. His was similar in style to the one at Janie’s place, having been rendered in watercolor and ink. Kohler’s card depicted a man wearing ancient Samurai armor, seated on a golden throne, a large golden sphere shining above his head. He put the card down, and turned to his host. “So . . . now what?”

“Now,” Gabriel replied, “we dine. Malus?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, a formal bow of his head. He gave one sharp clap of his hands and a chorus of surprised gasps sounded from the guests, as one by one, silver domes appeared over each of the plates. A basket containing several varieties of bread and rolls dominated the center of the table. Sparkling water bubbled up from the bottom of each goblet until they were filled to the brim. Bowls of colorful relishes and sweet butter danced into formation around the bread basket. At each place, a candle twinkled happily in a votive cup that matched the place setting. When the table had settled, Malus said, “There, I believe you have everything,” then turned to go.

“You’re not leaving are you?” Gabriel asked quietly from the side of his mouth, reaching out to touch Malus’s elbow.

Malus gave him a patient smile, and tapped the ball of the walking stick that rested next to Gabriel’s chair. “I shall be close by should you, or your guests, require my service.” He bowed to the assembly, then walked away quickly, vanishing into the lush green of the garden.

Gabriel grasped his walking stick before looking up to the stunned staring faces on his guests. Perhaps I should let them dine alone . . . . The slightest of tremors created a pattern of concentric circles in his water goblet, in answer to his thought. Yes, milord . . . it was only a thought. He beamed to his guests, motioning to the domes covering the plates. “Please . . . enjoy.” He lifted the dome over his dish, jumping to his feet, sending his chair scraping against the stones, his walking stick clattering to the alabaster. “Zounds! What manner of creature is this?” He dropped the dome crown-down into the middle of his dish.

Spenser let out a guffaw he quickly checked. Maggie laughed more at Spenser than at Gabriel’s startled reaction to his dinner.

“Far out! Baby lobster things!” Seth said, craning to see what was on Gabriel’s plate.

“Baby lobsters?” Elizabeth laughed. “Son, those are Louisiana crawfish in black butter.” She drew in a long breath over her dish.

“Crawfish?” Gabriel said, trying composing himself, as he stared at the creatures swimming in a pool of glop and vegetation.
“They look all the world like . . . scorpions. Are you certain they’re . . . edible?”

Elizabeth cracked a shell, sucking out the meat, licking her lips after. “Mmm, sure are. Delicious.”

Janie let out a polite, nervous giggle, lifting her dome. “I guess we all have the same dinner. I half expected them to be different like the dishes. I’m glad though, I love creole.”

Kohler rolled his eyes, shaking his head at Gabriel. “You’d think the man had never eaten,” he muttered under his breath, removing the dome from his own place. “I’m not much for creole, myself.” He looked into his bowl, and jumped to his feet as Gabriel had, sending his dome splashing into the bowl. “What is this? There’s . . . there’s eyeballs in my bowl!”

Spenser howled, slapping his hand on his leg, and pointing. “Lamb’s eye stew! Peek-a-boo!” He laughed, until Kohler scowled at him. He swallowed his laughter, and spread his napkin on his lap.

“Guess our dinners are not all the same,” Maggie chuckled, sarcastically. “What’s wrong, Kohler, never eaten before? I suppose I’ve got chilled monkey brains? Stuffed cockroaches? How ’bout deep fried tarantulas in garlic? Whatever it is, I’ll bet it isn’t . . . ” she lifted her dome, her eyes going wide, the first genuine smile crossing her face, “corned beef and cabbage!”

“Me too!” Spenser beamed, rubbing his hands together merrily. “Red potatoes, carrots . . . mmm. Well done, sir.” He tipped his brow to Gabriel, who was just settling back into his seat.

“Uh . . . thank you, Professor, but the bill of faire was not my doing. You have Malus to thank. Please sit down, Mr. Kohler,” he said, not looking up, but poking at the crawfish with his fork. “I’m sure you can subsist on bread and butter if the soup is not to your taste.”

Seth snickered then lifted the dome of his own plate, letting out a slightly disappointed sigh.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Kohler snorted. “You get stuck with eel a la mode? Not so funny when it’s your plate that’s full of chum is it?”

“Hmm? Oh, no it’s fine,” Seth replied, not looking at Kohler. “It’s my favorite lunch. Tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.” He offered Gabriel a shy glance, and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Gabriel felt an odd vibration on the arm of the chair, quite different from the tremors that had come before. Yes, I heard him . . . He leaned slyly toward Seth, pointing alternately between his dish and Seth’s, then raised a conspiratorial brow with a wink. Seth grinned, and handed his plate to Gabriel, accepting Gabriel’s crawfish in exchange.

“You have a taste for the exotic?” Kohler asked Seth, as he watched the exchange. “Try some of this.” He held the bowl of lamb eyes in Seth’s direction. Seth shook his head, then planted his sight only on his food. “How ’bout you, Gabriel? Anyone?” The others paid him no attention as they hungrily ate the meals they were given. “I’m talking, here . . . ”

“And they’re eating, Mr. Kohler. As you should be.” Gabriel took a roll from the bread basket and offered it to Kohler.

Kohler scowled, refusing the offering. “I’m used to far better treatment.”

Gabriel ignored him, and picked up one triangular half of the cheese sandwich, sniffed it, then nibbled at the corner. “Oh my, that is delightful.” He took another bite, savoring the sensation of the buttered bread and cheese in his mouth. He took another bite, a bigger one. “MMmm. Mimplymelightful!” He mumbled, his mouth full of sandwich.

“Try dipping it in the soup,” Seth suggested. “It’s best that way.”

Gabriel swallowed. “Oh?” he asked, then did as Seth had suggested, soaking the corner of the sandwich. “Mmmm! Marvelous! Simply wonderful. Thank you, lad.” He glanced up to see Maggie looking at him, a curious tilt to her head, an amused grin on her face, watching him as he enjoyed the sandwich. She looked away quickly when she realized he’d noticed her staring. “Is your dinner to your liking, madam?” he asked her.

“Oh,” she nodded, swallowing the mouthful of cabbage she’d just forked in. “Yeah…not bad.”

“Good,” Gabriel replied, and looked in turn to the other diners. “And yours? Professor? Doctor?” Each nodded enthusiastically, and continued eating. Janie made the politest little burp, then pressed her hand to her lips, looking around, apologetically, then resumed eating her dinner.

“I’m not satisfied,” Kohler grumbled, sitting back folding his arms over his chest.

“Not enough bread? There’s water too . . . go on, eat up,” Gabriel encouraged.

“You should have traded with me! The kid could have eaten that sandwich. You didn’t even offer! What makes some snot-nosed teenage hippy more important than M. Robert Kohler?”

Seth looked up, stung. Gabriel raised a soothing hand in his direction. “Eat your crawfish, with my compliments, lad.” He turned to Kohler, his hand finding the handle of his walking stick. “There are none here who are any more or less important as any other, Mr. M. Robert. All are equal at my table. But if you require an explanation I’ll give you a simple one. You see, even though this young man was disappointed with the meal placed before him, he did not berate his host and then demand something new. He simply said ‘thank you’ and was prepared to eat it.”

Kohler’s face flushed, but he had the grace to hold his tongue. The others stifled snickers as they swallowed their dinners, save for Seth, who seemed to shrink down into his chair keeping his eyes fixed on his dish.

The remainder of the meal passed in near silence, broken only with polite requests for bread or butter to be passed.

Spenser made the one true attempt to start a conversation. “I noticed the pillars . . . Doric aren’t they?”

“Doric? I’m not certain. I believe they are marble,” Gabriel replied after moment’s thought.

Kohler and Maggie both laughed into their cups. Janie and Elizabeth exchanged a silent giggle. Spenser nodded, smiling, and did not pursue the issue.

Gabriel leaned toward Seth. “Have I said something . . . inappropriate?”

Seth gave a quick glance to the others, then answered softly, “He was asking on the style, sir. The pillars are Doric, but made of marble.”

“Well isn’t that what I said? Marble?”

More snickers around the table.

Seth drew his lips tight, glancing around the table at his dinner companions. “Yes, sir.”

Gabriel smiled, giving Seth a pat on the hand. “Thank you, I have learned something. Doric. . .interesting.”

Kohler shot a haughty sneer toward Seth, and muttered something snide under his breath.

“Are you finished with your bowl sir?” Malus inquired, politely.

“Where the hell—?” Kohler jumped, startled, when Malus appeared behind him as if stepping out of mid air.

“Your bowl? May I take it?”

“Uh . . . yeah sure.”

Malus bowed then waved his hand over Kohler’s bowl. It shimmered then dissolved into the table, leaving no trace of its former existence. He then moved gracefully around the table, removing each place setting in a like manner, followed by astonished gapes, that he seemed to not notice. When he finished clearing the dishes he stood back, taking the dutiful posture of a maìtre d’.

Gabriel stood slowly. “Your rooms have been prepared—”

“Rooms?” Elizabeth asked? “We have rooms?”

“Of course,” Malus said, rolling his eyes. “Does that surprise you? Did you expect to be berthed in the garden?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Honey, I don’t think anything would surprise me anymore.”

“That will do, Malus,” Gabriel said, grinning. “If you would please follow Malus, he will show you the way. I shall see you all in the after-dark.”

“The what?” Maggie laughed.

Malus leaned toward Gabriel, whispering.

“Oh. I meant, the morning,” Gabriel said. “Morning . . . that time when the light returns.” He looked toward Malus for confirmation.

Malus nodded, then walked briskly down the alabaster path toward a solid hedge of holly. A wave of his hand, and an arch appeared. He turned to face the guests. “This way.”

“Not surprised, at all.” Elizabeth muttered to Janie, as the six guests formed a single file row and followed Malus through the hedge.

Gabriel stood back for a moment, until the hedge closed behind the last guest, Seth. He turned his face sky ward and raised his hands palms up. “Are you certain?” A grumble below his feet was the reply. He sighed, retrieved his walking stick and made his way slowly toward the hedge, feeling the heaviness of his new-found humanity growing with each step. “Yes, yes . . . I know. . .I know . . .”