22. The Grackles Are a Menace
22
The Grackles Are a Menace
Rory
T he Clayton Farm stands before them in the gathering dusk, a soft white structure against the teal-blue sky with its sweeping arcs of pink. Beside the house, fading off into the distance, are rows of squat red barns and a system of fencing that separates cows and goats and even a few horses from the fields of produce. Beyond that, Rory can see the beginning of an orange grove. Bill once told him there’s a few grape vines out there too, from which the somewhat illegal Clayton Farm Wine is made.
Behind the main house, just out of view, Rory knows there is a chicken coop, and off to the side, he can see the silhouette of Elijah, leaning over the engine of a beat-up Chevy truck. The automatic front porch light clicks on as the sky darkens, illuminating the brown door with its handmade wreath of sunflowers.
Rory turns off the car and looks over at Calliope. She’s wearing a blue dress so dark it looks like it was cut from the expanding night sky above. Her long curls are pulled back into a braid and, remarkably, seem to be staying put. In her lap, sits a small bunch of wildflowers left over from their sojourn in the forest the day before. Her lower lip is between her teeth, and he can just see the needlepoint taper of her canine tooth.
At first, he thinks her worry is anxiety about the kelpie. They’ve spent all day buried in kelpie lore after all and have only uncovered a handful of verifiable facts. One thing that was emphasized, across almost all the texts, is that a bridle is a kelpie’s most sacred artifact. The longer a kelpie is separated from their bridle, the more physical and emotional anguish they will experience, as they slowly drift into grief-stricken madness. Every minute he and Calliope spend away from the library is another minute that the kelpie of Graeme Lake is suffering.
Rory is worried as well, of course. He feels it too: the minutes slipping through his fingers as the sense of urgency increases. But his worries are more focused on the small problem of procuring the ingredients for the potion. Before Calliope locked herself in her room to get ready for dinner at the Claytons, they bickered over where they could find the more obscure items, such as Minotaur horn powder (Rory is still on the fence as to whether a Minotaur is real, to be honest) and poke berries (which don’t grow wild in Willow Lake and are unlikely to be stocked by the general store downtown).
In the end, Calliope won: they will travel to Lyon’s Cross, the nearest magical town, to find an apothecary. It’s not that he has a better idea on how to acquire the ingredients, but that he’s been avoiding magical communities for a reason. He is perhaps willing to face the consequences should he be recognized, but what about Calliope? Would she be a target by mere association? It’s not something he’s willing to learn.
But Calliope wouldn’t budge, and he can concede that there are few alternatives. They are set to leave in a few days, when Rory doesn’t have to worry about being back for work. Not for the first time, he questions why he’s so willing to fold in the face of Calliope’s determination. It’s like something has shifted after their walk through the forest. She has absolved him from his past crimes, however subtly, and he feels he owes her. “You’ve got it bad,” Kane told him while he waited for Calliope to get ready for dinner earlier.
He denied any understanding of the bird’s cryptic words, and they left Kane with his books and a promise to return with pot roast, if that is, indeed, what is being served tonight. However, looking at Calliope now, as she twists her fingers in her lap, he can’t help but think Kane’s right .
“Feels weird being without them. So light.” She wraps a hand around one of her bare wrists. The manacles were removed before they left the house. Out of curiosity, he suggested she try cracking one of the concrete pavers that line part of the driveway. It would seem his earlier worries are unfounded. The paver barely crumbled.
She’s still looking at the house, wrist clenched in front of her chest. “If I lose control, you’ll—stop me, right?”
Realization of Calliope’s true worries washes over him and his own memory of how she reacted the last time she was around a human comes back to him. “You’ll be fine,” he assures her, thinking of her frozen in the kitchen, fear and regret writ large on her face.
“No.” She turns in her seat so that she’s facing him. “Compel me if I try to…well, you know. Just promise.”
He looks at her solemnly, taking in her furrowed brow and pursed lips. She looks frantic, on the verge of tears. Not the best way to show up for dinner. “I promise,” he says quickly. “But you’ll be fine.”
“How are you so confident?”
“Because I trust you—” Her eyes flash at him, surprised, “—and because I can compel you,” he finishes, with a smirk. “But I won’t need to.”
She huffs lightly, looking steadier than before, and she nods. “Right. Okay. Let’s do this.”
They exit the car and make their way down the front pathway, her pointy-heeled boots sliding precariously against the gravel here and there. She’s clutching the bouquet in front of her like a shield.
Martha greets them before they even knock, the screen door squeaking as she holds it open. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meat spills out from the house, and it smells so welcoming—so homey—that Rory feels that pang of something quite like yearning. It’s a different homelife to the one he grew up in, which was cold and brittle, not to mention so many centuries ago, the idea of electricity and television would have been considered witchcraft. If his childhood was forged in iron, however, then Martha and Bill’s home is an heirloom quilt that he’d happily wrap around his shoulders.
“Come on in,” Martha says with a smile. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Calliope.”
“You too.” Calliope smiles and holds out a bouquet. “I can’t thank you enough for inviting us over for dinner.”
Martha places her hand over her heart, taking the bouquet with her free hand. “Our pleasure, darling.” Then, she turns to Rory and clucks her tongue. “Too thin, as usual. Let’s get you a drink.”
She motions for them to follow down the entryway, into the kitchen and then through the large archway that opens into the living room. Rory ducks his head as they pass through. He feels too big for the tiny living room, a dark hulking monster amongst the chintz loveseat and pastel floral paintings that adorn the white walls. It’s a familiar feeling though; he is forever hunching over to fit himself into spaces that are too small and he has long since made peace with it. Doesn’t stop him from noticing, though.
He can see Martha as she flits about the kitchen, arranging the bouquet in a recycled milk bottle before leaning down into the fridge. Rory is entirely prepared to hold onto a glass of iced tea through the evening, letting the condensation drip down his hand as he moves the glass around in an effort to make it look like he’s drinking it. But really, he should have known better. Bill and Martha know full well what he is, and he’s grateful that she hands him a small blue glass of blood without hesitance. Chicken, by the smell of it. Fresh, too.
“I wasn’t sure which you preferred,” Martha is saying. She bustles into the living room with a glass of wine for herself, “but we’re having chicken tonight and it seemed a waste to not…use it all.”
“Thanks, Martha,” he says, earnestly, taking a sip. He looks over at Calliope, who is clutching her glass so tightly, he’s worried she’s going to break it. He takes a step closer to her, giving her a reassuring smile. She gives him a strained look in return, but her shoulders do seem to loosen as she takes a sip of her drink.
Heavy footsteps announce the arrival of Bill. He passes through the archway, carrying a bottle of beer. His presence is stoic but congenial, and Rory realizes he’s never really had much of a conversation with Bill outside of placing an order and a few tidbits of a small talk.
Bill shakes Calliope’s hand, introducing himself as “Mr. Martha Clayton,” with a chuckle. “Bill,” he adds. “Bill Danes. It’s nice to meet you.”
Calliope smiles and Rory notices that when she drops her hand back to her side, it stays there. Likewise, the hand clutching her drink is decidedly less tense as Bill’s grin and endearing joke put her at ease. But no sooner does Bill stand back than Martha takes his place again, pulling Calliope’s attention away to the side. They sit down on the loveseat, heads bent toward each other like old friends.
This leaves Bill and Rory standing awkwardly by the unlit fireplace.
“Sorry about this,” says Bill, taking a swig from his bottle. “Martha’s been dying to get you two over here. In a little while, she’s going to ask you about her great-grandfather, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s fine.” Rory takes a sip from his glass. “Can’t say I remember him much…”
Bill shrugs. “She found some photos.”
Rory makes a noncommittal noise and takes another sip of his drink.
“You smoke?” asks Bill suddenly, clearly relieved to have come up with something to take the edge off the awkward small talk. “I’ve got some cigars.” He looks over at Martha and Calliope who are deep in a discussion. “Let’s leave the women to it.” He waves toward the kitchen, ushering Rory out through the side door and onto the back porch.
The rocking chairs creak as they sit, and heavy smoke soon clouds the view in front of them as Rory alternates between puffs of cigar and sips of blood. The sun has truly set, and the darkness presses comfortingly in around them. The cicadas are a constant hum in the background, along with the gentle metallic clinks coming from around the side of the house, where Elijah works on his truck. Rory can see the glow of the flood light Elijah is using, but otherwise, the fields are a sea of dark before them.
Bill puffs on his cigar. “I saw Officer Burton the other day,” he says casually, the words tinged with smoke.
Rory’s facial expression doesn’t change, though he does tighten his grip on the glass.
Bill continues. “He had some nice things to say about your Calliope, though he called her something different.” He takes a swig of his beer. “I couldn’t help but notice some scabs on his neck. That from…” Bill motions vaguely toward the window, where the shape of Calliope’s figure can be seen through the lace curtains in the living room.
“She’s…” He takes a sip, searching for the right word. “Learning.”
“You have her under control?” Bill’s voice is soft, but not threatening. Almost fatherly.
Rory nods. The cicadas fill the lull in the conversation. “I like it here,” he adds at length. “I don’t intend to leave anytime soon.” I like it here with Calliope, he thinks.
“Good. We like having you here.”
The screened door creaks open, letting Martha and Calliope out onto the porch. Martha has a shoebox with old photos, including one of her great-grandfather at the local bar in town. Rory can be seen in the background, laughing with someone else just out of frame. Calliope leans over his shoulder to see the photo better, propping herself on the back of the chair.
“Looks like Carla’s old place,” says Bill, glancing over.
“The Grackle’s Nest,” says Rory with a smirk. The smirk fades, however, as he looks closer at the photograph. He can’t see the face of his companion, but he can see the ring on his hand and knows it’s his brother. The handwritten date on the back of the photo is June 1952, half a year before the Second Blood War began. He had forgotten that Aodhán had visited him. It was a brief visit, only a few days, and he spent the whole time rambling about revolution and honor.
“Warren Clayton figured us out early on,” he says. “But he never judged us. I liked him. He was a good man.”
“Do you remember my mother?” Martha hands him a photo of a woman who looks almost exactly like Martha, though her chin is pointier and her nose a little longer. But the cheeks are the same, the smile wide and unencumbered .
Yes, he thinks, but he only remembers when she died. So young. He recalls being sad at the news, though his brother couldn’t understand how or why Rory bothered to maintain friendly relationships with humans. “She was beautiful. Kind to everyone. Always said hello to me.”
He’s handing the photo back to Martha when the soft sounds of the night are interrupted by a loud crash from beside the house, followed by a string of expletives and fast approaching footsteps.
Elijah comes into view, a stained shop rag wrapped haphazardly around his hand.
Martha clicks her tongue. “What have you done now?”
The smell of blood fills the air. Not a lot though—a small quantity that Rory is perfectly capable of ignoring. It doesn’t stop the hair on the back of his neck from standing on end and sharp twinge in his gums.
Calliope stiffens, taking a step out from behind the rocking chair, her eyes narrowed on the rag tied around his hand.
“Sorry, ma’” Elijah says. “Just slipped.”
Out of the corner of Rory’s eye, he sees Calliope lift her foot and take one step closer. Just one, but it’s enough. He leans forward to push himself out of the chair, a hint of magic at the back of his throat, his command reading itself on his tongue, when a grackle comes out of nowhere, chest puffed up, wings flapping.
The bird’s loud juddering cry pierces the night and Calliope stops, frozen in the middle of the porch with her hand on her throat and her teeth clenched.
Martha ushers Elijah into the kitchen and the door closes, cutting off the smell of blood.
Bill swats at the grackle. “The grackles are a menace out here,” he says with a curse.
“Same at the lake,” agrees Rory. “They’ll take the food right out of your mouth.” He shoots an apologetic look at the nearby tree where he’s sure Kane is keeping watch.
Bill chuckles. “Just the other day…”
As they listen to Bill’s story, Rory moves closer to Calliope, placing a hand on her lower back. Her hip bumps against his. He slides his hand to rest lightly on her waist.
He hopes his touch is reassuring.
He hopes it tells her that she did good, and that he’s proud of her, and that everything is okay.
He tries to send the thoughts to her in the same way he would send a command, only less so, because he’s not reaching into her mind through his touch.
He’s letting his own magic reach out to her, like a gentle knock on the door, a whispered encouragement. He’s not sure if it works, but she does slowly relax, hip jutting against his side as she leans against him.
The feeling of her so close is distracting, and he struggles to pay attention to Bill’s story, laughing a split second too late when Bill exclaims that the grackle stole the worm right out of his hand as he was trying to hook it.
They’re laughing when Martha comes back, a heartfelt apology already forming between her lips.
“It’s okay,” says Rory, quickly, squeezing Calliope closer to him. “Will Elijah be okay?”
“Yes,” she says with exasperation. “That boy will lose a limb one of these days, if he isn’t careful.”
The conversation continues, the ebb and flow of stories finding a sustainable rhythm. Rory’s hand stays around Calliope’s waist.
He turns braver as the night wears on, his light touch turning heavier, his thumb tracing a pattern up and down the seam of her dress. He waits for her to move away, but she never does.
* * *
Later, when Rory is driving home, he glances at Calliope with a small smile. Her face is lined in red from the light on the dashboard, and she smiles back, reaching over to rest her hand on his thigh. When he glances over again, her eyes are closed, head bent awkwardly as she drifts to sleep.
When he pulls into the drive at Graeme House, he turns off the car and looks up at the dark house in front of him. The air is thick with humidity, the promise of another storm that may never come. The moon is low in the sky, a heavy waxing gibbous, almost a full moon .
He closes the car door as quietly as possible, to not wake Calliope, then makes his way to the passenger side. He scoops her into his arms easily and makes his way up the front steps. The door opens obligingly, and Rory mumbles his thanks.
The hallway light flickers on and then dims as he crests the top of the stairs, as if the house, too, does not want to wake Calliope. Easing open the door to her room with the toe of his boot, he makes for the couch by the window and lays her gently down.
He brushes her hair from her forehead and her eyes flutter open, still heavy-lidded with sleep.
“Why did you save me?” she asks softly, nuzzling into the pillow.
He tucks a curl behind her ear. “Because you didn’t deserve to die.”
“How did you know? How could you tell?”
“Just could.” He brushes his thumb against the soft curve of her cheek, wishing he felt confident enough to kiss her.
“Thank you for saving me,” she mumbles, sleep pulling her away again.
He leaves the room, closing the door with a quiet click. A moment later, there is a flutter of wings and Kane lands on his shoulder.
“That was a close one,” says the bird.
Rory nods. “Thanks for being there, by the way. Sorry about what I said…”
“It’s okay. I’m not truly a grackle, you know right? ”
“Oh yeah?” Rory arches an eyebrow. “What are you then?”
Kane squawks, nipping Rory’s ear affectionately. “I’m a menace, obviously.”