Beneath the gleaming skyscrapers and picturesque facade of the City of Redemption lies another city; a community of dark and ancient magic populated by creatures of the night.
Strephon Bellman, a semi-immortal half-fae living in Redemption, has been tasked by the Faerie Queen with the mission of investigating a renegade faerie lord named Melchior who has established himself in the city. So far, his investigation has brought him in contact with werewolf street gangs, a vampire club-owner, sinister computer games, a Gilbert & Sullivan society, and a winsome reporter; but he seems no nearer to finding the answers he seeks.
Dark Redemption is an Urban Gothic Fantasy which will be running in weekly installments Wednesday evenings. Previous installments can be found linked at the Dark Redemption Index.
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Chapter 29: Everything Is Connected
In Which Strephon enjoys tea at the vicarage and receives a modicum of advice.
When Strephon attended church, which he admitted was more out of a sense of nostalgia and a fondness for the Anglican hymnody than any piety, he went to St. Onesimus, a small neighborhood parish not far from his home. The grand Cathedral of the Holy Redemption, built on the medieval shrine from which the city took its name, was a bit too “High Church” for his tastes. He preferred St. Onesimus, where he and Phyllis had been married and to which they had walked on pleasant Sunday mornings in his more ambulatory days.
Devon would not have approved of him visiting the church, which is why Strephon didn’t tell him. The fae have a long-standing antipathy towards churches, largely stemming from the ancient war waged between the Children of Oberon and the Inheritors of St. Augustine. To Strephon this was ancient history, but the immortal fae have long memories about these things. Perhaps this was the reason why holy things dispelled faerie glamours, and were an anathema to the Fair Folk in general. Strephon didn’t know; no one had ever told him why, just that it was the way things were. He did not share this vulnerability to Sanctity, partially because of his half-human heritage, and partially, he surmised, because his mortal father had him christened, and the rite had conveyed a sort of immunization against it.
But the real reason Strephon didn’t want to tell his cousin was that if he did, he would have to admit that he wasn’t going to visit the Vicar, but rather the Vicar’s wife, Lydia; and he’d had quite his fill of Devon’s remarks about his social life.
In addition to being the Vicar’s wife, Lydia Palmer was a member of the International Sisterhood of Independent Sorceresses; a group founded by the Industrial Workers of the World back in the 1930s in an attempt to unionize the witches of England. The Wobblies were trying to organize everybody back then. How she managed to reconcile this affiliation with her position as a clergyman’s wife, Strephon often wondered; but never felt impudent enough to ask. He suspected that she found it expedient not to tell her husband about these things.
The International Sisterhood was never quite the political force its founders envisioned; witches tended to be independent-minded and treated the organization more as a social group. Phyllis had been a member back when the two of them had been more active in the magical community; sort of an “honorary witch” deemed magical by marriage; but that was long, long ago. When Second-Wave Feminism hit the organization in the early ‘70s, it briefly took on a more activist role and successfully lobbied to have witches added to the Council. About that time Strephon re-established his connection with the group in order to oppose a development plan to build a shopping center in Stillwell Forest, one of the large areas of parkland in the city. He had met Lydia then and the two had remained cordial acquaintances.
“Mister Strephon, so good to see you!” the Vicar greeted him. “Lydia told me you would be dropping by. May I help you in?”
“Yes, thank you.” Strephon preferred to manage his wheelchair by himself when at all possible, but Albert was a good soul and allowing him to do this small charity was a charity in itself. And the vicarage, like many old houses, was beastly difficult for wheelchairs.
“I wished to speak with your wife about donating some flowers to the Altar Guild. It’s my mother’s birthday, you see.” Actually, he wasn’t sure faeries even had birthdays; being immortal, they certainly didn’t celebrate them; but it seemed a harmless enough taradiddle.
“I don’t think we’ve seen you at service in a while.” The Vicar tried to make the remark sound casual, but as he was also trying to manhandle Strephon’s chair over the front steps of the vicarage, he couldn’t avoid a grunt in the middle of it.
Strephon expected the comment; it was, after all, part of the man’s job. And he was certain that the Vicar expected his reply: “I’m afraid not, Vicar. I do find it difficult to get out and about these days.”
“Do you have a computer? I’ve been putting my sermons and our Bible study outlines on our website. I’m trying to convince the Parish Board to let me do live streaming of our services.”
Strephon tried not to shudder. Did everything have to involve computers these days? Still, he should have expected this too. Albert always was a tech enthusiast. When they had first met, it was cassette tapes, and then videos.
Fortunately, at this point Lydia rescued him. “Albert, are you going on about your computers again? I thought you were working on your hymn schedule.”
The Vicar gave a guilty acknowledgement and excused himself.
“Albert hates selecting hymns and tends to put if off ‘til the last moment,” the Vicar’s wife explained. “It drives our organist mad!”
“I imagine.”
“So he’s taken to doing it all at once, once a year, to get it all over and done with.”
Strephon agreed that this was quite sensible.
When her husband had left the room, Lydia quietly shut the door and turned to Strephon. “Now then, why are you really here?”
Strephon gave the Vicar’s wife a précis of his investigation into Melchior Dusk. It irked him to realize how much of that investigation had been spent pursuing matters irrelevant to the matter. No wonder Devon was always so cross with him.
Lydia listened intently, and sipped her tea without interrupting. When he finished, she said, “This girl, Strephon. How do you feel about her?”
Strephon flushed. He hadn’t meant to mention Cassandra at all. And yet somehow she kept coming into his narrative. What was happening to him? He used to be better at dissembling than this. “Miss True is not my main concern.”
“I see,” the Vicar’s wife said with a sage nod which somehow suggested a total lack of belief.
“My problem is Melchior and what to do about him,” Strephon insisted, perhaps a bit too forcefully to be persuasive. “Miss True is in no way connected with the matter.”
“Oh, everything is connected. It’s an essential principle of the Craft. But setting aside the girl for the moment…” Lydia put down her teacup with a business-like air and folded her hands; “…I’m not sure how I can help you. Cynthia Vane is our representative on the Council, but she’s a career politician. Her motto is: ‘Don’t Make Waves’. I doubt she’ll make a stand about this Melchior fellow. And as for computer games, that’s really more of Albert’s line. Not that he’s ever played Virtual Hot Tub to my knowledge, but I’m sure he’s heard of it.”
“I thought you might help me with this.” Strephon leaned forward and with his finger drew a small quadrilateral on the coffee table. A small focusing ritual. As he leaned back an illusion appeared above the space of a leather collar, ornamented with silver. “The wolves who attacked Miss True and I last week wore these. They are marks of the Reaver clan, I’m told. The collars are inlaid with faerie runes.”
Lydia cautiously reached out to touch the collar. Strephon gave the illusion enough substance for her to handle it and observe it more closely. “Is it silver?” she asked.
Strephon nodded.
“It can’t be very comfortable, not for a werewolf, certainly.”
“It’s a machismo thing, I imagine,” Strephon said. “Although I fancy it’s also their leader’s way of reminding his pack who is in charge. From what I’ve seen of Mr. Lukas Bianca, he does not seem to strike me as a terribly subtle person.”
“And you think this Melchior had a hand in this?”
“I don’t know. His administrative assistant denies it; and although the collars possess faerie magic, I do not believe they are fae workmanship. But the coincidence is suggestive; and as you observed, everything is connected.”
The Vicar’s wife pursed her lips for a moment. “I hate to say it… but this might be Belladonna's work. She makes jewelry, and of the witches I know, she’s the one most knowledgeable about faerie lore.”
Strephon scowled. “I was afraid of that.” If he had thought to speak with Morrigan a week ago, he might have gotten some answers. Or perhaps the results would have been the same. In any case, it was too late now; Morrigan was out of his reach, spirited away to who knows where.
“You might try asking around at the artisan’s market in Wildmere forest. It’s held every other Saturday. Belle used to sell her things there. Maybe someone there knows something about it.”
Strephon nodded. “It’s certainly worth looking into.”
“Another possibility. If you want to know more about werewolves, you might try Pastor Shepherd.”
“Shepherd?” Strephon tried to place the name. “I don’t believe I know him.”
“He used to be pastor of St. Matthias, the Methodist church over on Eighth Street,” Lydia replied. “He was involved in a wolf attack several years ago.”
“Ah yes.” Now Strephon remembered reading about it.. The man had the misfortune to lead his church’s youth group on a camping trip on a weekend when the moon was full, and was attacked by wolves. At great personal risk, he held off the pack with an aluminum tent pole so that his charges could get to the safety of the church’s van. The youths escaped unharmed, but Pastor Shepherd was badly mauled. “What happened to him, anyway?”
“He was laid up in hospital for a couple weeks. Arthur visited him once. He said he had changed; that he was graver, more introspective than before. Of course, considering how close he came to death, that is hardly surprising.”
“And he had become a werewolf?”
Lydia did not answer directly. “The trouble did not begin until after he was released and went back to his congregation. He spent a couple weeks in seclusion, and then suddenly came out all bursting with enthusiasm, as energetic as ever. But Arthur said there was something not quite natural about his new lease on life; something not canny. His theology began to show hints of disturbing heresies – even for a Methodist. That is what Arthur said, mind you.”
“Of course.”
“I think it was when he tried to replace the bread of the Holy Eucharist with actual meat – cooked meat, of course, but still – that his parishioners complained to their bishop. The church had him quietly removed from the congregation.”
“And where did they place this renegade Methodist?”
“Oh, he’s still in town. He started his own mission on Foxglove Avenue; sort of a combination soup kitchen and flophouse with worship services twice a week. I’ve heard it said that he particularly ministers to the lone wolves, itinerants without a pack of their own. I did NOT hear that from Arthur.”
“I imagine not.” Strephon thoughtfully munched on a biscuit. “I have been out of touch far too long. I should be more aware of what is going on in my own city. You’re right. I might do well to look up this Reverend Shepherd.”
“I’ll get the address of his mission for you,” Lydia said, gathering up the tea dishes. As she did so, her husband came out of his study.
“Ah, leaving so soon, Strephon? Pity we couldn’t chat a bit more. Say, would you like me to offer a prayer this Sunday for your Mother?”
“My Mother?” The question came as a shock.
“For her birthday.”
He had forgotten that taradiddle. “Oh no. That won’t be necessary,” he said a bit too quickly. Holy symbols, he knew, were anathema to the Fair Folk; he wasn’t sure if a clergyman’s blessing was something his Mother would appreciate. The troubled and puzzled look the Vicar gave him made Strephon feel guilty, so he added, “But my cousin Devon has been going through a particularly stressful time lately. I’m sure he would appreciate your concern.”
NEXT: Soap and Opera