Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

“Agh!” I yelled, pointing at the corner. “What the hell is that?”

The badminton game ceased. Eliot, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch gaped at me. I looked at them, then squinted at the corner, now suddenly empty. I sprinted over to where the two walls met, only to find no statue, no movement, no miniature knight. I tore open the door that led to the postern gate. The tower was icy cold and deserted. Disappointed, I slammed back inside.

“Miss G.?” Tom’s voice was full of concern.

“Sorry, everybody. I thought I saw something … .” I felt acutely embarrassed. I really did seem to be losing my mind. Except Tom had had a similar vision/hallucination/whatever. What was going on?

Sukie shot Eliot a stern look and murmured that sometimes it was better not to share the legends of the castle with guests. Eliot tossed his hair off his forehead and replied that he hadn’t told me any ghost stories. But I noticed that his eyes had become anxious. Tom tilted his head at me: Did my Tale of Law Enforcement scare you? I shook my head, as in, It’s okay.

“Let’s do the fencing demonstration,” Michaela interjected, and I was thankful for the change in subject. The last thing a caterer wants to make is a gaffe, especially when the guests then proceed to discuss it for the rest of the evening.

Michaela and Arch took swords and masks from a bag stored under the buffet table. While Arch rolled out a mat, I kept an eye on the dark corner. So, I noticed, did Sukie. Tom, meanwhile, engaged Eliot in a spirited discussion of the escalating prices of antique furniture. But I couldn’t help noticing that Eliot’s gaze also kept straying to the shadows through which I’d seen the armored figure glide.

“This is an épée,” Michaela announced in her gravelly voice, commanding our immediate attention. “With the foil, which Arch and I usually use in practice, one may score a point by a touch on the upper torso. With the épée, touches anywhere on the body count. Arch, come here, please.” My son dutifully hopped up from the mat and strode over.

“The first thing we teach,” Michaela said, pointing to Arch’s feet, “is how to advance and retreat. Okay, Arch.” My son obliged by stepping deftly forward and back. Michaela continued: “The front arm and hand holding the weapon are parallel to the ground.”

At this she handed Arch an épée, which he brandished: in showmanlike fashion, Tom grinned.

“The back arm,” Michaela went on, “is crooked up at the elbow, hand facing the sky, for balance, until someone attacks, and lunges. Go ahead.”

Arch lunged. As he straightened his back leg and arm, he thrust the sword forward, It gleamed dangerously in the light from the chandelier. My son, the swashbuckler.

Michaela picked up a weapon. “The final skill we teach newcomers is parry, riposte. Your opponent attacks. You slap his sword aside, then counterattack.” She lowered the mask over her face. “En garde, Arch.”

Michaela and Arch touched their swords to their masks in formal greeting. And then they went at it, back and forth across the mat, moving with remarkable swiftness and an impressive snapping of swords. Clink, clink, swoosh, clink. I found myself growing more nervous with every flourish. I didn’t know if Michaela was letting Arch win, or making a good show. Arch scored a hit. Both took off their masks, bowed deeply to each other, then to us.

We all clapped enthusiastically. All of us, that is, except Eliot, who appeared increasingly anxious. As if on cue, Julian entered with a tray. He had shortbread cookies, ice cream, and frosting-slathered Chocolate Emergency Cookies, plus an insulated coffeepot and cream and sugar containers.

“And now,” Michaela said, “we will - “

Somewhat rudely, I thought, Eliot interrupted her with, “Great! Come on everybody, time for our sweets!” Tom and Sukie attempted halfhearted applause for the fencers.

Downcast, clutching his weapon, Arch raised his eyes to me for a cue. I gave a tiny shrug. Michaela murmured to him that the demo was over, and would he please roll up the mat.

With exclamations of pleasure, Eliot and Sukie received demitasse cups of coffee and crystal bowls of ice cream, with cookies perched on the scoops. Ignoring Michaela and Arch, Eliot resumed his somewhat shrill monologue on the exorbitant prices of antiques. Julian, his intuition alerting him that something had run amuck, appeared at my side.

“What’s going on?” he murmured.

“I thought I saw a ghost, and now Eliot’s acting a little uptight,” I said under my breath.

“Oh, is that all?”

“Julian, I saw something. So did Tom, when he woke up today. So either there is a ghost here, my husband and I are both having hallucinations, or a kid or midget or something is romping through the castle, wearing knight’s armor.”

“If it’s a girl in her late teens, tell her I’m available.”

“Julian!”

“Early twenties would be okay.” He scanned the Great Hall. Eliot and Sukie called their thanks to us and waved good night. Standing not far from us, Arch looked crestfallen.

“Jeez, Goldy, Arch looks like a friend just died,” Julian commented, concerned.

“He was enjoying being the center of attention for once - “

“Mom!” Arch appeared by my elbow and I yelped. It was his silent disappearing-reappearing act, learned in his eleventh and twelfth years, otherwise known as his magic-trick phase. I didn’t like it any more now than I had then.

“Michaela wants you and Tom and me to come over and see the fencing loft,” my son said eagerly. “And Julian, too, if he’d like to. We can finish our demonstration over there, if everybody still wants …”

“Oh, no, thanks,” Tom said. His face was haggard, and I knew the evening had worn him out more than he was willing to admit. “I’m going to turn in, if that’s all right.”

“Mom?” asked Arch, his face pleading.

“I have to do the dishes,” I said, with a pang. “Sorry.”

“Forget the dishes,” Julian told me firmly. “Go watch the demonstration. And, hey! I’m getting good at cleaning up. Makes me feel helpful.”

Arch’s expectant look, Julian’s offer, Michaela’s generosity, and, of course, my admonition to Arch not to go anywhere in the castle alone, made me say yes, I’d love to watch the demonstration. But not for long, I told Arch hastily: I still had prep to do on the labyrinth lunch, and he had astronomy homework. Not to mention, I added silently, if there was going to be a ghost-knight flitting around the castle, I wanted to be at my son’s side when the specter made his next appearance.

Toting armloads of fencing equipment, we wended our way through the cold, dimly lit postern gate tower, then down a drab hall to a set of steps leading to the first floor.

“How come part of the inhabited section of the castle is downstairs,” I asked Michaela, “and part is up?”

“In Eliot’s grandfather’s time,” she replied, “two of the castle’s original four stories were what their family and our family lived in and used. Then when the flood of ‘82 came, Eliot had to make some decisions. The wall of water blasted down Fox Creek, broke the dam, and flooded the basement and first-floor rooms on the west range. Eliot wanted the study redone, because of the beautiful old fireplace in there, and his and Sukie’s bedroom. Chardé has worked hard on the place.” She shook her head. “But, whoa, did we all get tired of her, begging to refurbish the rest of the flood-damaged rooms, telling Eliot that he’d look cheap if he didn’t spend more money getting everything redecorated. That woman’s a money-grubber if I ever saw one.”

Don’thold back on your feelings, I thought as we tramped past the entry to the indoor pool, the door to Eliot’s study, and then through the glass doors marked UNDER CONSTRUCTION - NO ADMITTANCE. The Wet Paint sign was gone. The splattered paint, however, was still allover the place, and the new padlock was securely fastened.