Christopher Golden - The Nimble Man

But she knew she had been wrong, feeling the effects of seeing him again as if the decades that separated them were but the passing of a season. Ceridwen had hoped she would be stronger than this, and at that moment, wished in hindsight that she'd had the wisdom to partake of some spell or magickal elixir that would have dulled the painful memories of what she and Arthur Conan Doyle once shared.

The hurt of their lost love was a distraction, and that was something she could ill afford at this time.

Ceridwen hissed aloud, suppressing the rabid emotion that now bled from the newly ravaged wound of feelings, and forced her attentions fully to the chore at hand. There would time later to deal with the trivial pains of her failed relationship, when the fate of worlds did not hang so precariously in the balance. Right now, she had to concentrate every facet of her consciousness upon communicating with the elemental spirits that composed the world of man — the world that the Fey had come to call the Blight.

With her staff, upon the parchment of open air, the Faerie sorceress wrote the intricate spells of elemental calling that had been passed down from generation to generation, as far back as the Fey could remember. The forces of nature had always been at their beck and call, a symbiotic relationship built upon a strong mutual respect.

The air grew steadily colder, her breath clouding from her mouth as she uttered the names of the primordial spirits that comprised the world. As she spoke the last of their names, she felt the frigid air around her become charged with an eldritch energy that had existed since the explosion that was the birth cry of creation. The floor beneath her feet thrummed as the chilled air began to swirl. The flames of the candles, strategically placed about the room for illumination, stretched, growing taller, leaning toward the coursing air. She could feel the presence of those whom she had called, weaker than the last time they had communed upon the world of man, but still a force to be reckoned with none the less. Sadly Ceridwen wondered if there would ever come a time when the elemental spirits would be too weak here to answer her call, but that was a concern for another time.

"You have summoned and we have answered, child of the Fey," said the elements, their wispy voices speaking in unison. "What task would you ask of us?"

Ceridwen bowed her head in reverence to the forces that bound the universe. "Great and wise elemental spirits, this world in which you reside is in grave danger, and I ask of you only one thing, to transport me quickly, and stealthily to my chosen location so that I may deal with this threat." She raised her head to see that a vortex composed of the elements swirled about her: earth, wind, fire, and water. "Will you aid me?" she asked of them.

The spirits did not answer and Ceridwen began to wonder if the distraction of her feelings for Arthur Conan Doyle had affected her far worse than she had first imagined.

"Spirits?" she questioned. "Have you heard my plea?"

They were still silent, whirling about her, and she was about to ask them again when at last they spoke.

"Perhaps it would be best if this world were to die," they said in unison, and Ceridwen found herself stunned by the response.

Long had the forces of nature on this world been under constant assault, the dominant species of the planet having no respect for the heavenly body on which they thrived. Mankind's arrogance and blatant disregard for its environment was maddening, and she could not help but entertain the thought that perhaps the spirits were right. Every time that she had set foot upon this accursed world, she found it in worse condition than the last. Humanity was killing this place that had once been second only to Faerie in its lush beauty.

The outcome was surely inevitable. Did it really matter if this place were to die now or later? she pondered. Ceridwen could not even begin to understand how Arthur could have left the world of the Fey for such a tainted place, but he loved this world of his birth, and had made himself its protector. It was not her place to encourage its demise.

"No," Ceridwen said forcefully to the elemental manifestation that surrounded her. "This is not the time or place for such discussions. There is much life still left in this world and I — as well as others who share the same thoughts, are not yet ready to allow it to pass."

The elements were quiet, dwelling upon her words.

"Perhaps we were too rash," the spirits hissed. "Your faith momentarily restores our hope. We shall watch further before this world's fate is decided upon."

"A wise decision," Ceridwen answered, again bowing her head in respect. "Will you then grant my request?"

The whirlwind began to swirl all the faster around her, the elements blurring together as one powerful force. "Take us into yourself, and in your thoughts, show your destination."

Her former lover's home took shape within her mind as she inhaled, allowing spirits of nature access to her body.

"Yesssssss," they whispered all around her. "We know this place."

And the winds spun all the faster, shrieking and moaning as the forces of nature readied to do the sorceress' bidding.

"A traveling wind," Ceridwen said, clutching her staff of power to her chest, the icy ball adorning it pulsing with a cold, blue light, the combination of the frozen water and the fire within. "That is what I ask of you. A traveling wind to take me to the home of Conan Doyle."

"It is but the least we can do for you, child of the Fey," the elements said as they took her within their embrace, lifting her up from the ground.

"The least we can do."

Danny Ferrick stared with awe into the living room.

The boy had had every intention of going up to bed, to lie down and attempt to understand what he had learned about himself, as well as the world in which he lived. In his mind he saw his life, and the world in which he lived represented as a gigantic rock, its dark, jagged surface covered in patches of lichen and moss, undisturbed and untouched for perhaps hundreds of years. But then that rock was flipped over, and something else entirely was exposed — something terrifying, and yet absolutely fascinating. That was the real world for him now — the world in which he belonged.

His foot had just touched the first step that would take him up to his room when he'd felt it. It was like a gentle tug, as if there were an invisible rope wrapped around his waist and somebody at the other end, pulling — drawing him toward the living room.

Danny turned. He knew that Ceridwen was in the living room performing some kind of magickal spell that would take her to Conan Doyle's house. Is that what's pulling me? he wondered as he moved quietly down the hallway, clinging to the shadows. Is Ceridwen's magick somehow calling to me?

He heard voices coming from the room, and by the sound of it, the woman was not alone. Danny pressed himself against the wall before the doorway and listened. Ceridwen's voice was beautiful, like the singing of a song every time she spoke, but the other voice — multiple voices really, speaking as one, it made the dry skin around his new horns itch like mad and the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

Danny carefully peeked around the doorframe, not wanting to be seen. He was going to have his look, and with his curiosity satisfied, go right up to bed.

At least that was what he had intended.

All that he had seen recently, all he had experienced, it paled in comparison to what he was seeing at that moment.

"A traveling wind," the Faerie sorceress said aloud, her voice filled with authority. The air in the room, seeming to have become almost solid, spun around her incredibly fast, but she remained calm in the center of the maelstrom. "That is what I ask of you. A traveling wind to take me to the home of Conan Doyle."