The Last Will of Moira Leahy (5 page)

Moira learned more later—about Maeve pointing the way as unerringly as a wind vane through chowder-thick fog until they were found, floating in the sea like fishing buoys.

“Poppy had a heart attack in his brain. He’s going to live with us now,” Maeve said. “I think this is what I felt last year about him. What if I’m right about the baby, too, and—”

“Stop it!” Mama stood in the doorway, looking furious and wild, like a stranger. She rushed at Maeve and, for the first time, slapped her across the face. The sting of her assault spread through Moira’s flesh as well.

Daddy seemed to come from nowhere, and pressed his hand over Mama’s mouth. He pulled her away, his lips pale and flat. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he muttered, and Moira didn’t know to whom he spoke, since he looked at all of them in turn.

Mama never mentioned the incident after that. She all but lived at the hospital until Poppy’s release three weeks later, then made a place for her father in their home and spent most of her time caring for his needs.

“You saved my life,” Moira said one night, lying beside her twin. She didn’t mind about the droopy bed now.

“No,” Maeve insisted, “you saved your own. You’re like a goose on the water.”

“Goose brain.”

“Goose butt.”

They slept together after that like goslings—huddled for warmth and hoping the foxes stayed away.

CHAPTER THREE

CRIMSON STAIN

T
he day after Thanksgiving, I finally made my way to Betheny’s biggest and best antiques shop, Time After Time. Like most retailers across the country, it would be a huge sale day for Garrick, so I arrived before the shop officially opened for business. Excitement hit as I pulled into the empty lot. I’d missed this sight. Three stories tall, perfectly white, with a peaked tower and twin chimneys, the old Victorian looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell Christmas village.

I strode across the stone walk with the
keris
in hand, and was greeted with the rich scents of cinnamon and pine when I opened the heavy wooden door. As always, my eyes couldn’t pick a focus in this place that seemed like Oz to me, like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Every nook and cranny beckoned with some new treasure—
come, look, touch, buy
. There were Japanese woodblock prints, stained-glass lamps, ornately carved pieces of furniture, African masks and Indian headdresses my poppy would’ve loved. A huge blue spruce stood in the center of the room, bedecked with multicolored glass ornaments, miniature lamps, real tin tinsel, and a crystal star.

Scads of fascinating old books lay everywhere, including one I’d been tempted to buy after a particularly bad run of nightmares:
Old
Gypsy Madge’s Fortune Teller and the Witches Key to Lucky Dreams
. Inside were instructions for making talismans against love, enemies, war, and trouble in general.
TO BE WORN AROUND THE NECK,
it read. Turned out I wasn’t that desperate.

Artwork decorated every wall, including one area near the front that was dedicated to Noel’s paintings. His specialty: irony. True love between a fly and a cow’s tail. A pregnant old man. A squirrel chasing a dog up a tree.

Come on, Maeve, pose for me. Just once
.

Don’t be stupid, I’m no model, are you blind?

Who’s being stupid? And who’s looking at you? Let me
.

Sorry, too shy
, I’d lied with a saucy grin. Truth was, I’d never be able to sit for that long with Noel staring at me, even if he did have a pencil or brush in his hand.

A proper English accent sated my hungry ears—“My dear girl, it’s wonderful to see you!”—and there before me stood Garrick Wareham, dressed for tea in a green shirt, striped wool vest, and gray trousers. He looked like a Hobbit: short in stature (we are actually the same height—5’3”), with a mop of curly white hair and a pair of blue eyes that sparked with intellect and steadfast good humor. A Hobbit, except for that snowy white mustache of his, tipped up at the ends.

I hugged him. He smelled of lemon drops.

He led me down a familiar hall off the main room—the one that also led to Noel’s studio.
How’s Noel? Where is he? When will he be back? Did he find his mother? Has he asked about me?

These questions stalled on my tongue as we turned into the weapons room—a formidable place lined with locked glass cabinets full of machetes and bayonets and spearheads and other things I couldn’t name but wouldn’t want to meet up against in a dark alley. Various showcase pedestals dotted the floor, including one that displayed a pyramid of musket balls and another that featured the navy cap of a Civil War officer.

“Now,” Garrick said, stopping at a workstation, “let’s have a look at that
keris.”
I handed it over, and then he unsheathed it and whistled long and low. “Fly me over the moon. It’s perfect.”

“Well, not quite. There’s a hole.”

“That’s not a flaw.” He turned the
keris
, brought it close to his face. “You’re supposed to be able to see the future through those. It’s good luck.”

I wasn’t surprised I hadn’t read about good-luck holes during my Internet search; Garrick prided himself on obscure information. While he might call his knowledge factual, though, Noel probably would’ve said otherwise.

“Let’s see what we have after I give it a bath.” He unlocked an opaque cabinet, and pulled down half a dozen bottles covered in warning labels. Toxic cleansers. “Make yourself at home, Maeve. There’s cocoa in the kitchen if you’d like.”

“You’re too good to me,” I said, though my taste buds didn’t jolt as they should have. I loitered. Strolled the room. Watched Garrick. Finally, I stepped before a pedestal displaying a Revolutionary War bugle, and my thoughts drifted to Castine’s own legendary Revolutionary War musician.

According to the story, Castine’s drummer-boy ghost died during a skirmish in my hometown. He’d haunted the battlefield for a while, then moved into a tiny nearby dungeon. I’d always wondered why. Maybe he’d grown tired of the field. Or maybe he’d wanted to escape the memory of trumpet call. I could relate to that. Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20 in D Minor had been with me since the previous night, as ceaseless as a haunted music box.

“How’s the music?”

I nearly knocked the bugle over. “What?”

“Is it too loud, not loud enough? I swear, my hearing …”

I became aware of Bing Crosby’s crooning for a white Christmas coming in through the shop’s speakers. “Oh, it’s perfect.” I needed to hold it together.

“There’s a resting snake in the last case on the left if you’d like to look,” Garrick said, still scrubbing at the blade.

“Snake?”

“A straight
keris
is sometimes called a resting snake, and a wavy blade is active. It comes from
naga
, a mythical reptile. Do you know Sanskrit?”

“No,” I admitted, walking toward the back. “But I did find out that the word
keris
comes from the Javanese
ngeris
, which means ‘to pierce.’ I did a little research last night.” Eating cold turkey with my fingers and fighting the effects of tryptophan for as long as I could.

“Did you? And what did you learn?”

“That I shouldn’t believe half of what I read.”

He chuckled. “Well, what did you read?”

“That some
kerises
bring good luck and some bad.”

“Yours will certainly bring good. What else?”

“They come in different wave lengths and patterns. Let’s see if I can remember the names—they were in the book, too.” I stopped before the last case. “The number of waves are called the
luks
and the pattern is called the
pamor.”

“Very good. Look at the
pamor
on that one,” he said, and I swiveled around to face the glass. I recognized the
keris
right away by the unique cut of the metal near the handle—an area I now knew bore a long list of specific features, like
ganja
and
tang
. In fact, the
keris
had more labeled parts than most unassembled toys imported from China. Otherwise, there was little resemblance between this particular
keris
and mine.

“It’s very nice,” I said, noting the scattering of bold ovals along its straight length. No need to tell Garrick that
that
blade wouldn’t have caught my attention at Lansing’s Block.

“Kerises
may well be manufactured by machine nowadays,” Garrick said wistfully, “but it used to be that
empus
made them, layering metals to create perfect patterns by following something like a blueprint. Each design was supposed to bring the owner a specific gift—like wealth or inner strength.

“But sometimes the
empu
would allow the blade to be made however it wanted to be made. When that happened, it was said the gods had a hand in crafting the
keris
because they had plans for it. Your
keris
,” he said, “is fated.”

“Hmm.” Another hole in my education.

“The details in your blade’s
pamor
have darkened over time, but I believe they’re clearer than they were. Come and see.”

I stepped up. Though still near black with age, the
keris
now shimmered bronze and silver, like the skin of a serpent in intense sunlight. Thin veins ran from one end to the other, swirling harmonically in some places and eddying off in others. No intentional design. Fated—or fluked—into being.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“It’s positively brilliant!” Garrick’s mustache convulsed.

I took the proffered blade and balanced it on my palms. A citrusy fragrance emanated from the warm metal.

“Do you see the man in the blade?” he asked.

“Man?” I felt a subtle pressure against my palms when he touched the
keris
.

“There’s the head,” he said, indicating a dark metallic pond toward the handle, “and there’s the chest, arms, and legs. It’s a bloke, and it makes your blade more powerful. Magical. And, I suspect, worth quite a bit of money.”

I squinted, but these supposed body parts still looked like random blobs to me. “What about the waves, the
luks?
How many are there?”

“Well, let’s see.” He traced the length. “Hmm.” He started over, his brows bunched together. “Eleven.”

“What does that—”

“Or thirteen.” He nodded and scowled simultaneously.

“It matters how many, to know what it was made for, right?” Not that I believed in that mumbo-jumbo-gobbledygook stew, but it was interesting. On a hypothetical level.

“Yes, that’s part of the equation. I’m sorry to say I can’t be sure about it, though it must be an odd number of
luks.”

“Why must it? What if it isn’t?”

“It always is, otherwise it would be unlucky.”

“Unlucky
luks
. That doesn’t sound good.” I smiled even as his frown deepened; Garrick took his lore seriously.

“Some
kerises
are luckier than others,” he said, “depending on the
pamor
and the shape. Even the blade’s length is important. You know,” he said in his big-eyed, silky-voiced way, “you can tell a blade’s intention by putting it under your pillow. If you have a nightmare, the
keris
is bad.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, though I had no intention of snuggling up to objects that might lead to my accidental impalement or doing anything—regardless of my skepticism—to court more nightmares. “Let’s consider a hypothetical. Say my
keris
had eleven
luks
. What would that mean?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he said, replacing caps on bottles. “There are about one hundred and fifty shapes and as many as two dozen patterns possible on a blade. Think of the combinations. It’s a real science!”

“So, if I wanted to know more about it …?” I prompted.

“Hmm.” He stilled, thoughtful. “I suppose there are books dedicated to the
keris
. Or you might look for an
empu
—though I believe they are exceedingly rare nowadays.”

“Oh,” I said, as if I’d cracked opened a fortune cookie and found it empty. What an unfulfilling
avventura
to be left with so many unanswered questions. Disappointment must’ve shown on my face.

“Don’t be disheartened, my dear. Every
keris
is imbued with magic. Did you know meteoric metals were used to create the
pamor? Empus
believed meteors were metal of the gods, coming straight from heaven.” I opened my mouth to reply, but he went right on. “It doesn’t matter where the magic comes from, I suppose—only that it exists. There are old stories of
kerises
flying from their sheaths to defend their owners, and there are still towns in Malaysia and Java that fear some notorious blades possessed by evil spirits. And there
is
some evidence …”

I could just imagine Noel standing beyond his grandfather, the roll of his eyes, the sardonic grin.
Humor him
, he’d mouth.

“It’s too bad Noel isn’t here to look at your
keris,”
Garrick said, like he’d read my thoughts. “He’s quite a talent at estimating age and value. Ah, well. He’ll return one day.”

My toes curled. “Soon, I’m sure, for Christmas.”

“I’ve been kindly asked not to count on it.” He said it with a hint of melancholy, but then he looked straight at me and the ends of his mustache tipped toward his nose. “You know how he detests flying. He’ll never need to ride another aeroplane again if he stays in Europe. He’ll just use the rail!”

I was too numb to smile back at him. Maybe that’s why I asked the question so artlessly.

“Did he find her?”

“Who’s that, dear?”

“Um …” Hadn’t Noel told Garrick about the search for his mother, Garrick’s daughter? Was it supposed to be some sort of surprise?

Garrick seemed oblivious to my confusion, though. His mustache had drooped again. “Ah, well. I get the feeling he’s preparing me for something. I fear he may never come home.”

Never?
My fingers curled as tightly as my toes. Too bad I’d forgotten about what lay in my hands. The pain shocked me; I couldn’t swallow my gasp. I heard Garrick’s voice as if in a tunnel—“What have you done?”—as blood oozed from my sliced palm.

He brought me a damp washcloth and something to kill germs.

“Be careful with the
keris
,” he said as I cleaned the cut. “It’s a true weapon.” He sheathed the blade, but even with my flesh aching, I wanted it back in my hand.