The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted

“Did you do something different with your hair,” Jordan asked from his spot next to me.

I’d just popped another of the colorful little Oreo-like cookies in my mouth, so I half-covered my mouth and mumbled, “I combed it.”

And blow dried it, but he doesn’t need to know that. The Spanish humidity isn’t doing my wavy hair any favors Lucia’s hair always looks perfect.

He wagged a finger at me and said, “That’s what it is.”

Jordan and I sat on a white couch with flower patterns in the room that didn’t fit any of the traditional room-naming parameters, waiting for Fran to return with the coffee. There was no TV, but there was a piano, a coffee table with a few books and an orchid, and a couple of overstuffed blue chairs.

Fran thankfully arrived carrying a silver serving tray covered with coffee, cream, and sugar.

“You’ve got a call,” Jordan said, miming a phone with his fingers.

“Oh yeah?” I replied, avoiding eye contact and adding my third teaspoon of sugar to the admittedly small coffee cup.

“It’s diabetes,” Jordan whispered. “Should I tell him to call back in about twenty years?”

I added a fourth teaspoon out of spite.

“Try back in fifteen,” he said into his phone-hand before hanging up.

I took a sip and smiled smugly. It was a little too sweet, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.

“Lucía tells me that your memory is coming back, and I understand that you’re anxious to learn more,” Fran said. “Sometimes hearing some of the old stories can shake the memories loose, which is what this book is for.” She patted the small book with the red binding on the coffee table. “But if you have any questions first, I’ll do my best to answer them.”

“How fit was the average knight back in the day?” Jordan asked while somehow keeping a straight face.

Fran’s brow crinkled. “Are you speaking of their exercise regimen?”

“Ignore him,” I said. “He’ being, well, himself. Anyway, I have a legitimate question.

“How many lifetimes have I lived?”

“Counting you, there are eleven, that we can confirm.”

“Eleven. Ok. Cool, cool, cool,” I said uncertainty.

Ok don’t flip out. You knew there were more than Arthur and Charlemagne. It’s still more than one, and that’s the crazy part.

“There’s Arthur Pendragon,” Fran began, “and then we have Charlemagne, Emperor Ferdinand of Spain, King Richard the Lionheart, Robert the Bruce who was the High king of Scotland, Sir Francis Drake, Henri de la Tour d ’Auvergne, Joseph II, Emperor of Rome, and finally Winston Churchill, who was the Prime Minister of England during World War II.” She took a sip of coffee and smiled. “Do any of those names ring a bell?”

I couldn’t tell you a thing about any of them, other than Charlemagne didn’t smell great after walking around in armor for a while.

I shook my head.

“There were probably more than that,” Fran continued. “Lives where you didn’t remember possibly, or where Merlin didn’t find you before... well, that’s not important. Anyway, Lucía and I each have our pet theories about whom else you may have been.”

“No women?” I asked

“None that we know about definitively,” Fran said. She leaned forward and asked, “Do you remember something?”

“Does the term ‘Maid of Orleans’ mean anything to you?” I asked. “Merlin said she was hardheaded.”

Fran smiled wide, and Lucía jumped up from her seat and exclaimed, “I knew it!” She looked at me and added, “That was one of Joan’s titles.”

“Like, Joan of Arc?” I asked.

Fran nodded. “That’s another chapter to this book, and I’m going to get to write it.” Her voice was giddy with excitement.

“And what did she do exactly,” I asked.

“She was a badass,” Jordan said.

Lucía nodded. “She led an army against the British when she was a teenager.”

“She was also burned at the stake for witchcraft,” Jordan added.

“Yeah, there’s that,” Lucía admitted.

Yikes, I don’t want to remember that. Oh!

“That’s why her Walkman melted!” I said.

Jordan laughed, but the Castile’s just looked at me.

“It’s a line in a Morrisey song my dad used to listen too,” I explained.

No, we’re not going to think about this now. Press on…

“Why didn’t Merlin tell you about her?” I asked.

“It’s not like he stops in to chat over a cup of tea,” Fran replied. “We know he doesn’t involve our family in every life – though whether that’s by choice or by circumstance, only he could say. And now…”

And now he might be dead.

Fran cleared her throat and continued. “There are gaps in the record, which brings up the possibility that some incarnations didn’t live long enough to leave their mark on history,” she said with a frown.

“Galahad said he’d killed some of my other incarnations,” I said, “and I think that’s why my father and I changed our names and moved across the country when I was a baby.”

Fran nodded. “Merlin may not automatically know when you’re reborn, or even how to find you. It’s possible that Galahad or the witches found you first in some situations. It’s also possible that there are quieter times in history when your return wasn’t necessary. Of course, this is all just speculation.”

I blinked and suddenly I was on my back in a corn field in the middle of a rainstorm. I was freezing cold and soaked to the bone. Galahad stood above me in green-tinged armor, and the sword in his hand glowed that creepy, dull red in the dark night. I tried to scoot backwards away from him, but my hands and feet couldn’t find traction in the muddy ground. As he raised the sword above his head, I held up my hands to ward off the coming blow.

“Isn’t this time special or something, since I’m here?” Jordan asked.

My hands were up in the air, and I covered by pretending to stretch. No one seemed to notice.

“Well, sure it is dear,” Fran said. “Mackenzie is very lucky to have a friend like you.”

Jordan sighed. “No ma’am, that’s not what I mean – though it’s true that she is incredibly lucky to have me.” He took the time to wink at me before continuing. I rolled my eyes. “When we met Merlin, he told me that I’m Sir Belvedere. I assume he was a very important knight…”

“He was probably more of an honorary knight,” I said. “Maybe he cleaned up after the horses.”

That earned me a rare Jordan glare. It was more endearing than intimidating, and I pushed down the urge to say, “Awwww,” and pat him on the head for the effort.

Fran scrunched up her face in confusion and asked, “Do you mean Sir Bedivere, dear? He was Arthur’s closest friend. But that’s not possible.”

“Yeah, Merlin said that too,” Jordan replied. “Right before some runway model turned herself into a tiger and tried to eat our faces.”

“Lion,” I said.

Jordan signed. “Thank you so much for that incredibly useful correction, Mackenzie,” he replied.

I pursed my lips and nodded as-if the thank you was genuine.

“Point taken, young man,” Fran said. “When imposable things happen every day, is anything actually impossible?” She didn’t wait for a reply. It wasn’t that type of question. “I guess I should say it’s never happened, as far as I know. Which makes me wonder why now as well. Have your memories begun to return?”

“Some vague fight scenes, maybe,” Jordan started, and then added, “No, that was from the movie Excalibur.” He shrugged and added, “I lead a pretty full life as it is.” He looked at me and added under his breath, “I’m surprised you don’t remember more.”

“Maybe you just don’t want to remember your sidekick role,” I replied.

Oh, that glare actually has some weight behind it. Good for you. Ok, lets get serious. There’s an ice cream bar in the freezer with my name on it.

“Since I don’t have the best handle on European history-”

“You’re just as bad with American history,” Jordan added unhelpfully.

“-it would be helpful if you could give me a starting point,” I continued. “I have a vague idea about jousting and castles, but I’m not really sure what time period Arthur’s from.”

“That’s complicated,” Fran admitted. “Much of the popular fan-fiction about Camelot was written in the age of jousting and castles as you put it. Which was just writers taking liberties. The real King Arthur lived in Wales in the 5th century, just after the Roman occupation ended and before the invasions of the Angles and the Saxons. It was hundreds of years after that that the Normans conquered England and began the age of chivalry.” My face must have looked blank, because she paused and added, “The history of England is rife with conquests and occupation by a variety of peoples. Should I go over the timeline a bit?”

“Um, maybe later,” I answered, emphasizing the maybe. This was one of those hard no maybes.

“Of course, dear,” Fran replied. “Well, Arthur rallied the various Celtic kings under his banner and pushed the first Saxon invaders back to Norway and mainland France. It was the children of those invaders that Morgan and her coven later used to overthrow Camelot.”

“When you say Morgan,” Jordan said, “you’re talking about the sorceress Morgan Le Fey?”

“Yes indeed,” Fran answered, “though the title Le Fey is a misnomer. Le Fey, you see, is French for the fairy, and Morgan is most certainly flesh and blood.

“And why exactly is she sending shape-changing witches and homicidal lunatics to kill me?”

“Where to start?” Fran answered. “I believe the most basic answer is that Morgan hated her half-brother and wanted to see him fail. You see, she was first in line for the throne after Uther died. When Merlin presented Arthur to the Royal Court, and he drew the sword from the London Stone in St Paul’s Cathedral, Morgan was bypassed, and Arthur was crowned the King of the Britons.”

“So, this is about me being better with magic swords than my sister?”

“I think it was more about the crown than the sword,” Fran replied. “There was also the matter of Uther Pendragon, Arthur’s father, killing Morgan’s father and raping her mother.”

“Oh…”

“I don’t think she ever saw him as a sibling,” Fran added.

I didn’t know what to say, so I sipped some coffee. It was too sweet.

“Your dynasty and hers have been in conflict since Morgan was a teenager,” Fran continued. “As an adult, she surrounded herself with coven, which openly opposed Arthur and his knights at every turn. When she found out about Guinn’s affair, she used the information to weaken the Kingdom, and it was her own son, Mordred, that eventually killed the King. After Arthur’s death, she used the pagan Saxons to conquer the rest of Britton. Later as Charlemagne, you fought her Saxon supporters for thirty years, and eventually defeated them and converted the surviving Saxon tribes to Christianity. The pattern has continued throughout history. Morgan would rise to power, and you would return to oppose her.”

“Is Morgan immortal like Merlin, or does she reincarnate like us,” Jordan asked.

“Either is possible,” Fran said, “However, there’s a third theory as well. Are you aware of the quest for the Holy Grail?”

“Of course,” Jordan replied.

“What’s a grail exactly?” I asked.

“A magic cup,” Jordan said.

“There’s magic cups now?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Apparently.”

“I think I have just the right tale for you Mackenzie. It explains what happened to Sir Galahad and to the Grail and will give you an idea of the kind of women these witches really are.”

Fran eased a red-spined book out of the middle of the pile. The musty volume was bookmarked with a green ribbon, and she opened it to that page. “This manuscript is filled with eye-witness accounts of Morgan and her coven in Great Britton in and around the time of King Arthur, and this particular story is from the deathbed confession of Sir Bors, one of the knights who found the Grail in the old legends.”

Fran sat back in her chair and began to read…