Macfie woke late in the afternoon to a litany of curses coming from the garden. Stretching, he ambled out of the house to the back porch. Titch turned and, with disgust, pitched a holey cabbage towards the compost pile. “It’s those gods blasted pixies! Blast and damn them! I keep setting the copper lines around the cabbages, and the damned pixies steal it. Then the double-damned slugs get into the cabbages!” Titch threw his hat into the dirt and stomped for effect, punctuating his words with a hop and stomp. The man held in a laugh, knowing full-well that letting his mirth show was a sure way to send Titch into full-on meltdown. No one liked an enraged hobgoblin. Titch may be peaceable most of the time, but a hob was a hob, and hobs knew some creative ways to channel their anger if the mood catches them.
“I’ll look for it, ok? If the pixies took it, they’ll have a stash in a bole nearby. I’ll make the right offerings and see if we can’t convince them to leave your copper alone.” Titch seemed placated. The man turned and walked back to his little house for his walking stick and some mixed items. Some rock candy, some pieces of unworked silver, a couple shiny quartz. If it was pixies they were fairly easy to appease. They liked shiny and they especially liked sweet. Plus, Macfie was eager to walk the land a bit and get a sense of how the new ward was integrating into the local weave of life. The man set off on a brisk walk, already knowing which deer trails to head down and which copse of trees to check. Pixies were traditionalists, and there were only a couple stands of the sacred trees nearby that they’d hole up in. It was a beautiful morning and the sky was clear. At thirty-five, Alexander Macfie was as fit as he’d been in his twenties. Lanky built, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, his mentor had often commented he was built for dance and swimming, not working the fields. But his deeply tanned skin and rough-calloused hands spoke to a lifetime of love of working outside in the dirt. His garden was a point of pride and he made a striking figure when he was invited to the master gardener’s monthly tea. That he had a strong jaw and deep brown eyes, set in a face that usually carried an easy smile, often got the older ladies gossiping about why he had never settled down and not too few attempts to match-make him with a single daughter or niece.
Macfie let his mind wander as he walked, enjoying a moment to think about the master gardener’s tea. He was the youngest member by a good twenty years, but he loved those old ladies more than he could ever express. They were as close to a coven as he’d ever let himself have, his little circle of horticulturalists and busy-bodies who spent their retirements in their gardens and engaging in beautifications projects around the island. They didn’t realize it, but Macfie had quietly guided them into doing some rather substantial restorative work on a number of sacred sites around the island that had been previously badly marred by development. Their crowning achievement was the Founder’s Orchard in the small town square, a grove of ancient apple trees they had coaxed back to health after decades of neglect and several attempts by local business to tear them out and replace the little park with additional parking. Now it flourished and, unbeknownst to the diligent grey-hairs who maintained it, hosted a diverse and thriving faery population.
This was often how Macfie worked. When he couldn’t directly intervene, as he was now with Titch’s problem with pilfering pixies, he found unknowing agents to work through, often to a greater effect than if he had taken a hand directly. The Master Gardener’s were able to do something that he would never have been able to. They made it loved, by themselves and the town itself, and they had turned it into a symbol that had resonated through the island. There was currently a resurgence of homeowners planting apple and other fruit trees, spurred on by the stories of the founders and their first orchard and busy marketing by the local little nursery. That the nursery had gotten the encouragement to market along those lines, as well as a private donation of a large stock of saplings to sell, was another quiet way Macfie worked.
Macfie neared the edge of his property and the feeling of being near the new ward pushed all other thoughts from his mind. He’d never cast anything at this scale before and the results were impressive. To the naked eye, the ward was effectively invisible, registering as maybe a glimmer seen out of the corner of the eye. When Macfie let his sight shift, the true beauty of the ward was on full display. Stretching before him was what appeared to be an uninterrupted sheet of translucent gemstones, each perfectly fitted to its neighbor while defying any sense of pattern or order. The ward reached into the clouds overhead, forming a perfect dome far overhead. It pulsed and shifted as it interacted and responded to the local weave of life around it. Macfie had been concerned that a casting of this sort, a protective ward reinforced by blood magic, would interfere with the local weave. Sending his senses chasing along the border of the ward, Macfie couldn’t feel any disruptions. All living things partake in the web, their life energies mingling and interacting with the energy of their environment and with the threads of other being around them. The ward, bolstered with Macfie’s own life energy, was integrating beautifully with the local weave, which was treating it like it was just an extension of Macfie himself. Satisfied the ward was performing as he’d hoped he set off down the trail again. Passing through the barrier caused his skin to pebble up in gooseskin, like passing through a chilly shadow on a sunny day. Then he was off, ambling down the trail deeper into the woods.
A few moments later he turned down a seldom-used deer trail and looked for the copse of willow that he suspected the pixies were using as a home. It took only a minute of looking around to have his suspicions confirmed. Little sign were all over that the pixies were here – a snatch of bright cloth tied so it would catch the winds above the canopy, flecks of quartz in loose little piles around the base of the trees, willow whips twisted and woven into patterns the wind would never create. Sitting down, he waited for the pixies to come to him. A lot of interacting with the fairy world was about patience and being willing to listen.
The wind gently swayed the willow whips and the morning passed slowly, but Macfie remained sitting, his eyes half closed and his body relaxed. His patience paid off as he felt the lightest of tugs on his sleeve. Opening his eyes fully, he saw a slender, ethereal form with translucent gossamer wings looking at him curiously, perched on his knee and insistently tugging on his sleeve. Pixies were insatiably curious and his coming to their home and then doing nothing was sure to drive them a little crazy with questions. He was honestly surprised they waited this long to get answers. He sung a little tune, of lost treasures and working metals. Many fairies understood English, but they responded better if addressed indirectly through song and hints. The pixie sprung away and returned holding a ball of copper ribbon, rolled tight. It sung a counter song, of brave explorers and merchants and kingly riches found. Macfie reached into his pocket slowly and pulled out the unworked silver and laid it on the ground beside him. The pixie nearly leapt at it, but at the last moment kept itself in check. Macfie sung quietly of peaceful partings and friendships made strong by honest exchange. He also pulled out the rock candy, popping a piece into his mouth and setting the rest by the silver. The pixie did leapt this time, buzzing on delicate wings around the little pile of treasures. The diminutive fae circled the offerings once, then nodded and pitched the rolled ball of copper ribbon to Macfie before busily collecting the silver and rock candy, stuffing them into various pockets and pouches. Singing a tune of happy partings and fare travels, Macfie stood and brushed himself off. He tucked the ball of copper into his pocket and set off back for home. Melodic refrains of happy partings and delicious feasting echoed through the wood behind him, soon joined in harmony by other voices as the rest of the tribe came out to see what had transpired.
Setting off back along the trails, Macfie rolled the ball of rolled copper ribbon in his hands. Titch would continue to grouse about the pixies and the slugs, but macfie knew he’d be deeply pleased to get his copper back. The blow came out of nowhere, slamming into his shoulder and sending Macfie crashing into the underbrush. He landed hard, but the shrubs along the edge of the trail absorbed the brunt of his impact. Dazed, he scrambled to get his feet under him and tried to focus to pull up his personal wards. Sloppy! He chided himself. The woods had gone silent, save for his breathing. Moving slowly, he stepped back onto the trial and scanned around for his assailant. Nothing moved. First one step, then two, and macfie was moving down the trail, towards the safety of his home. On his third step the woods shook with a beastly roar as the brush parted and out stepped a fae of a type Macfie had never encountered before. It toward over him, it’s body roughly human, save for its proportions. The shoulders were broad enough to be nearly comical, if they weren’t also heavily knotted with muscle ripping under the skin and tufts of fur. The arms were long and equally knotted, and it stood on oddly jointed legs that ended in cloven feet. It’s most striking feature was the head, squat and thickly built, with a short muzzle and narrow set eyes. And horns, long steer horns curving out of the sides of the head, tapering to ends capped in steel points. It was the first minotaur he’d ever seen, and it was more terrifying than he had ever thought possible during his studies. It stepped onto the trail and snorted, staring intently at Macfie.
“You are not as described, human. But your aura doesn’t lie. Give me back the book and I’ll afford you the courtesy of a quick end and shall inform your blood that you died honorably.” It’s, his, voice was thick and deep.
“Whoa, friend. I think there has been a mistake…” Macfie had to throw himself to the side as the minotaur lunged at him. It barely missed, it’s horn passing close enough to cause Macfie’s personal ward to briefly flare. “Hey!”
“Don’t lie to me! You’ve already dishonored yourself with your theft, do not compound it with lies!” The creature roared at macfie as it slid to a stop and pivoted, more gracefully than Macfie would have suspected possible.
“Wait a moment, wait!” None of this made sense. There were no minotaurs in the Americas. Nearly all of them were banished to the Unseelie court after the war, and the scarce few who hadn’t joined on either side of the fae civil war had hidden themselves away deep in the forests of Europe. And what was this book it was talking about?
Macfie scrambled back to his feet. The creature was on the trail between him and home, he had lost his walking stick in the underbrush on the initial hit, and didn’t have any other casting reagents on him. All he had was the roll of copper ribbon balled up in his pocket and an enormous minotaur setting its feet for another charge. Gripping the copper, Macfie focused on the threads of energy moving through it and murmured the gaelic word for fire as he threw his other hand before him. Flames leapt from his fingers and the minotaur wasn’t quick enough to leap out of the way of the tongue of flame as it flowed over his chest. It bellowed and beat at its chest, it’s fur on fire. Macfie sprinted past it, dodging under the enraged creatures swinging arms and hurrying along the trail. He ran as hard as he could, knowing that the creature would only be distracted for a moment. He just hoped it was long enough.
Macfie ran and the minotaur gave chase. It’s need for stealth gone, its footsteps pounded after macfie. The only advantage that macfie had was that this section of trail was particularly winding. Minotaurs are terrifyingly fast if they can build up speed along a straight line, but can’t corner all that well at speed. At least, that was what Macfie had read, though watching how quickly it had recovered from its previous charge sent ice-water through macfie’s gut. Just a little further, come on! If he could just keep ahead of it for a few more minutes he’d be safe. The pounding was closing the distance quickly though. Macfie risked slowing down, sending his will out to channel energy from the nearby greenery. As he huffed out his invocation, the growth along the sides of the trail shifted and crept onto the path. Running on, Macfie heard the creature become ensnared in the creeping growth, its outraged roars echoing through the forest. Macfie cleared the last turn and saw the edge of his property come into view. He laid on every ounce of speed he had and threw himself through the ward wall. He crumpled to the ground, sucking in each breath painfully. His shoulder throbbed with the pounding of his pulse, red blossoming through the cloth of his shirt from the surprise hit the minotaur had landed.
“Tricks won’t save you, little human.” The beast stood just outside of the ward, glaring at macfie. “The theft of the libru di ligami will be answered for!”
“Just wait a damn minute! I don’t know you, I don’t know what book you’re talking about, and I don’t know what in the blazes is going on!” Macfie stood, resting his hands on his knees and leaning over to catch his breath. He glared back at the minotaur.
“I’m Alexander Jamis Macfie, last Master of the Circle, steward of the hidden spaces, and you have attacked me unprovoked!” Macfie rose to his full height, which came nowhere close to putting him on par with the towering minotaur. “What is the libru di ligami and why in the hells do you think I have it?”
“Lies are useless, human. Your stink was all over the temple, your essence in each of the kills you left behind. I will avenge my brothers and return the book to its sacred chamber and I will take your head with it!” The rage in the creature’s words and the hatred in his eyes took Macfie back. “We are not finished, you and I. You cannot hide behind your wall forever.” Without another word, the creature turned and vanished down the trail. Macfie collapsed on his backside, sitting on the trail and too stunned by what had transpired to do much other than catch his breath and listen as the sounds of the forest slowly came back.
Limping back to his home, Macfie thought long and hard about what the minotaur had said. He had no idea what the libru li ligani was, and nothing he’d read had made mention of such a book, in relation to the minotaurs or otherwise. Macfie had never had any dealings with minotaurs and the writings on the elusive tribe was sparse. They were physically powerful beings, who preferred solitude or the company of blood relatives. They had sided heavily with the winter sylvan in the civil war, though more than a few fought on the side of the summer fae. During the banishment they had stoically accepted their fates and marched into their side’s courts unflinchingly. The few who remained had been those who refused to fight on either side of the conflict, outsiders of the courtly politics and uninterested in the doings of the humans. Macfie had sought to contact them after the purge, as he had sought out all of the remaining fae tribes, but had failed to even come close to locating them. So why was one now hunting him through his own woods, accusing him of stealing a book he’d never heard of?
Macfie saw Titch in the gardens and waved when he saw the diminutive hob look over. Titch leaned his spade against the fence and ambled towards him, then sped up to a run when he got close enough to see the blood on macfie’s shirt and the general state of disarray he was in. “It was just copper, lad, no need to get into a full blown scuffle with a pack of pixies!”
“Not pixies.” Macfie shook his head. “Minotaur.”
Titch blanched.
“A minotaur? You sure?”
“Kind of hard to mistake one, don’t you think?”
“well, yeah, but…what in the name of the mother is a minotaur doing here? And why attack you?”
Macfie shrugged, at a loss as to how to answer either question.
“He mentioned a book, the Libru di ligami. I’ve never heard of it.”
Titch’s face fell further.
“Oh lad…”
“You’ve heard of it? The minotaur claimed I had stolen it from some temple.”
“It’s The Book to fae, the book that sealed away the courts and ended the war of the seasons. You wouldn’t have heard of it because most fae consider it a myth, vanished into the mists of time ages ago. Are you sure he said Libru di Ligami?”
“He was rather emphatic about it. He said it had been in a temple and that whoever took it killed to do so.”
Titch looked out at the forest, chewing his lip.
“This isn’t good, lad. There was a reason why the book was spoken of rarely and left lost to the sands of time. If someone found the book, killed for the book, then we may all be in danger.” Titch kept staring out to the forest, worrying his lip and lost in thought. Macfie shifted on his feet, bringing a fresh wave of pain from the various impacts and cuts. “Hells, lets get you cleaned up. I need to think on this and you need to rest and recover a bit.”
“First though, here’s your copper ribbon.” Macfie smiled as he pulled it out of his pocket. Using it in his casting had deformed it a little, sometimes casting sympathetic magic was hard on the reagents when they held only a loose connection to the effect being attempted. Macfie hadn’t had time to properly focus his intentions to minimize the damage to the copper, but the damage was minimal all the same. Titch gingerly took the roll of copper and spied the damage. “You’ll need to tell me what happened here, but later, ok?” Macfie just nodded and let his friend help him back to the house.
The days went by and life continued. Macfie had taken a grazing wound across his shoulder by the minotaur and was nursing a series of minor cuts and bruises from his tumbles in the forest, but it was all healing nicely. Titch worked in his gardens and orchards, enjoying the endless tasks that go along with end of the season. Macfie spent his time researching the libru di ligami, to not much luck. He and Titch talked about history and lore as they worked together harvesting, drying, canning, and curing as things came ripe. Doing the necessary clean up so the grounds were ready for fall and winter. Directing the pigs to the orchard where they’d feast on windfall apples and pears, watching as the chickens followed close behind. Despite the pall hanging over them and the lurking threat of a roaming minotaur, it was a time to celebrate a successful harvest and the equinox bonfire was soon, which required careful planning. Many modern-day “witches” celebrated the equinoxes and solstices, even if the original meanings were lost and forgotten. They basked in the pageantry and the roleplay of it all, and Macfie couldn’t fault them for wanting to honor the season in such ways. But it was also a bit bittersweet to him, as there was so much more to the rituals that they’d never know. The rites invoked, the burning of the garden debris, the warming of the soils to attract the underground fae, the offerings of food and song to the field and forest fae. It was a time to give thanks, both in spirit and in action, to the various partners that made working the land successful and the harvest abundant. This year it would take on an extra layer, as Macfie intended to do a much fuller ritual due to the new ward he’d built around his home. It was powerful magic, and if he didn’t want it interfering with various fae who visited or called his land home for part of the year he had to make sure the ward recognized them. This involved a rather intricate naming ceremony where Macfie would essentially create a “guest list” for the ward and make all who he called friend welcome.
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