A Well-Timed Enchantment Read online

  "I'm sorry," said Deanna. "Did it hurt something?"

  "Argh!" The man pulled his glowing hair and turned his back to her again.

  "I didn't know it was really a magic well."

  "Well, no," the chartreuse-haired man simpered. "Of course you didn't. It wasn't like it was obvious or anything."

  "It wasn't." Deanna was beginning to get annoyed with these two and their know-everything attitude.

  "Of course it was obvious. Even your cat could see it. Don't tell me you're admitting your cat's smarter than you are?"

  The man in the T-shirt nodded.

  Deanna pretended not to notice. She glanced at Oliver, who was a bristling huddle, watching the two strangers apprehensively. She remembered how peculiar he'd been acting by the well and shivered. "Where did the watch go?" she asked.

  "Back in time. To the dawning of the technological world." He must have seen her blank look. "Just north of 1066."

  "Just north...?" She decided not to ask. She had the feeling her next question was probably too obvious already. "So what?"

  The first man sighed, loudly. "So here's humankind, poised on the brink of striking out on its own, putting its trust in logic, just beginning—just at the very beginning of turning its collective back on magic—when: wham!" He slammed his fist into his palm, making Deanna jump. "Something beyond all logic: an artifact, a talisman, a message from the supernatural; to wit: Here is magic; it exists, it's stronger than your nebulous science, put your trust here."

  Deanna gulped. "My Mickey Mouse watch?"

  "Now you've got it: You've just gone and changed history, kiddo."

  "I am sorry," she said. "What exactly does the watch do?"

  The man rolled his eyes again. "What does it do? What does it do?" He counted out on his fingers. One: "Some people will think it's a message from God—proof of an afterlife; others will be sure it's a gift from Satan. That means suicides both ways." He put out a second finger. "It falls into the hands of the religious leaders of the day. Debating the watch's significance, the medieval Church will divide against itself four hundred years too early. This means good-bye to the feudal system it should have fostered." A third finger. "With no central authority, everybody wants that watch. Even those who don't want it want it—can't let it fall into the other guy's hands, don't you see? That means wars." He tapped his fourth finger. "In the collapse of dynasties, key people don't get born. Result? No Renaissance to speak of. No Renaissance: no Age of Exploration. No Age of Exploration: no discovery of America." He'd run out of fingers on that hand and waved both hands in the air. "Not to mention the bubonic plague and how that'll last ten years longer than it should because nobody wants to risk harming the creature whose image appears on your watch."

  Deanna gulped. "I am sorry," she repeated. She looked the two men over. (One with chartreuse hair, one with a pink T-shirt proclaiming Suzuki Violin.) "So who are you? Some kind of guardians of time?"

  The one with the T-shirt rolled his eyes. "Is that what you think we look like?"

  She didn't think he really wanted to hear what she thought they looked like and paused to consider. She concentrated on their beautiful, almost ethereal faces, on the one's fickle T-shirt and the other's gown which shimmered with otherworldly colors. "Elves," she said, before she was even aware of the word forming in her mind.

  The first winced. "Elves has such ridiculous connotations—don't you think?—helping shoemakers and such."

  "Though it is better," the second observed, "than some of what we've been called."

  His friend ignored him. "We prefer Sidhe, even though that's Gaelic instead of Gallic, or fair folk."

  "This whole thing is ridiculous," Deanna said. Where were her parents when she needed them? "This is absolutely ridiculous."

  "Yes, isn't it? So we're sending you to fix the mess you've made, to retrieve your watch. To make things the way they were before."

  Of course she wanted the watch back in any case; it was her watch, given to her by her father. But surely there was someone better suited. She said, "Look. If there were ... If you are—" She felt silly saying it "—'fair folk,' then you yourselves are magic. You can fix things back to the way they're supposed to be."

  "1 told you she was dumber than the cat," muttered the T-shirted one.

  "No," the other explained to her. "It's your world that is going to change, not ours. Besides, we don't have that much magic left. Magic has been disappearing for centuries, gradually, easily, gracefully. We've learned to make do with just a little. Sure, eventually we could right things. If we had the inclination and you had the time. But you have one day. Then things will start to change. History will begin to reshape itself. Do you understand? Twenty-four hours, and then nobody will even remember that the past used to be different. And you—you, little girl—won't even exist in that world. So you better do something about it quick."

  "But how? I mean, even if I was willing—"

  "Find the watch. Go back in time. Brave untold dangers. Destroy evil. Defend justice. Find the watch."

  This talk of destroying and defending was making Deanna nervous. "Where? I don't even know where to begin."

  "Well, right here is a good place to start. We're in medieval France. What is this? Do we have to tell you everything? If it was easy, ducky, we wouldn't need you to do it."

  The other, his red-and-white shirt bearing the message COKE, leaned closer to his companion and repeated, "I told you she was dumber than the cat."

  "The cat?" the first echoed. "Do you think we should send the cat to help her?"

  The other shrugged.

  "Now wait a minute," Deanna said. "You're not sending anyone. I'm not going." She wasn't even sure she believed all this, and anyway she was expected back for lunch.

  "Fine. Just be aware that you can't get home from here. Time here travels at a different rate." Then, to the other: "What good would a cat be?"

  The more normal-looking one said, "It doesn't have to be a cat."

  "Would you listen to me?" Deanna said. "I'm sure you could find someone who'd be much better at—"

  The first fair folk glanced appraisingly at Oliver, who arched his back and made a sound very like a growl. "Good thought. If nothing else, the cat can listen to her complain." He waved his hand. The air sparkled and snapped.

  "Oh my gosh," Deanna whispered.

  "Not bad," the T-shirted one said.

  "Try not to mess things up too badly," the one with the chartreuse hair told her. "And remember: you have twenty-four hours."

  Both began to shimmer, to fade. Deanna could see through them, to the trees behind them. Faintly she heard one ask the other, "So, who are you taking to the dance tonight?" The last thing she saw before they dissolved into nothingness was a lavender shirt with the words Auf Wiedersehen.

  Then she turned to Oliver.

  THREE

  Oliver

  Whatever Oliver was, he definitely wasn't a cat any longer.

  What he looked like was a young man—a boy—a year or two older than Deanna. He had dropped to a crouch and was watching her at least as apprehensively as she was watching him. He was dark-haired but pale-skinned, his eyes the same shade of green as they had been ... before. Black rough-spun pants and shirt, vest of black fur (not, presumably, from a cat), a sword similar to the ones the fair folk had worn: his appearance was indeed vaguely ... medieval.

  Deanna found herself dressed in a lilac-colored gown with matching slippers and hat. The hat, she thought, after examining it, looked like a dunce cap with attached scarf.

  Oliver inched backward, as though afraid of her. Deanna remembered how he had leapt into the water after her, going against his nature to rescue her and she hated that something about her made him afraid. "It's all right," she reassured him, though she felt it was unfair that there was no one around to reassure her. "We're still friends. Don't run away; we'll never find each other again if you run away."

  He hesitated, his large green eyes never lea
ving her face.

  Deanna stepped forward, but stopped when Oliver looked ready to bolt. She fought the inclination to say, "Come here, Oliver, come on, boy." She was vaguely uneasy, looking at Oliver the timid but attractive youth, as she remembered Oliver the cat, who would put his head in her lap and listen—or at least not interrupt—while she talked of how she missed home, missed the way things used to be. She began to get angry, not at him, but at the two fair folk. They hadn't asked his permission to turn him into a human any more than they had asked her if she wanted to come here and go on this ridiculous quest. Just because it was the human and not the elfin community in danger—

  She became aware of Oliver watching her, all the while watching her. Never moving, never blinking. Catlike, she thought, before she realized what she'd thought. She wondered how much he could read from her face.

  "Don't run away," she repeated, for that was what she feared the most.

  Oliver stayed where he was, but that may have been because she had stayed where she was.

  "Do you understand English?" she asked.

  He nodded, slowly.

  Impatiently, for she had been through a lot for a summer morning, she snapped, "Do you speak English?"

  He blinked. He might have given the faintest hint of a smile, she couldn't be sure. "I do now." The voice was as thoroughly human as the face.

  Now what? With a sigh, Deanna sat down on the ground. "Well," she said. "Any ideas?"

  Again a blink. "About what, specifically?"

  Deanna chose the most pressing question. "About where to find my time-traveling watch?"

  Oliver glanced around the glade. "It's probably not here."

  "No," she agreed, unsure whether Oliver was slow-witted or just had a weird sense of humor. "Probably not." He was supposed to help her. Maybe he was waiting for her to make the decisions. She wasn't used to making decisions. She was used to crossing her fingers and hoping for the best. She stood. "But where do we start? How do we get out of here?"

  Oliver got to his feet, a graceful uncurling motion. "We could try the path."

  There was no path: Deanna had seen that when she'd first glanced around the glade. But she humored Oliver; she looked where he was looking. She saw a road, paved with red polka-dot linoleum and marked with a flashing road-construction arrow.

  "Good thought," she said.

  This time she was sure he smiled. She found it oddly reassuring. She stepped onto the red-and-white linoleum and forced her voice into more brightness than she felt. "Wishing well," she said. "Elves. Next thing you know, we'll be meeting a frog demanding kisses."

  "What—" He fell into step next to her. "—frog?"

  "You know: a talking frog. Under a spell by an evil wizard? Kiss him and he turns back into a prince?"

  "Kiss him?"

  She glanced at his blank face. "Like in fairy tales."

  "Fairy tales," he repeated, as blankly as he had repeated Kiss him.

  If he had been one of those toy robots with the clear heads, she would have seen the wheels and gears going around for sure. Her assurance melted away, leaving her cold and empty. "Fairy tales," she said. "You read them to amuse yourself." She forced her voice to be stronger. "They're stories. A story's a kind of a ... sort of made up ... uhm..."

  He watched her steadily as she faltered, her hands waving vaguely. Then, when she gave up, he said, "I understand the words fairy tale and story."

  She found his eyes oddly unsettling. The pupils were round like a human's, not slitted like a cat's, but he stood too close and stared at her too directly.

  "Most likely, there won't be any story characters here."

  "No, I just meant ... Never mind." She pretended to be engrossed in their surroundings—the road, the trees, the occasional flashing arrow. Anything but Oliver. She was aware of him still looking at her. Great. Here she'd spent two minutes with a cat turned human, and already he thought she was an idiot. What do you say to a cat who can answer back? Deanna said nothing.

  FOUR

  The Clearing

  What to say? Where to start? Deanna wanted to thank Oliver for jumping in the well after her, but didn't know how. Did he remember he was really a cat? (And if he didn't, should she tell him?) What did it feel like to change? Had it been painful? Did he regret it? Did he know any more about where they were and what they were supposed to be doing than she did?

  Words had never come easy to Deanna. She had frequently found herself unexpectedly, unintentionally, in the background, even among her friends. And now, after a summer spent with distant relatives who spoke little if any English, she found it even harder than normal to get started. Thank you, Oliver, she'd say. Thank you? she could imagine him saying. Or, he'd ask For what? Or, if she worked out an answer for either of those, he'd say something else for which she didn't have an answer. Then she'd go and trip over her own tongue again, and Oliver would look at her with those big green eyes again, watching her make a fool of herself. Again.

  So, instead of working out what to say to Oliver, her mind returned to the two fair folk and what they'd said about the well. It had been magic. If she'd made a wish, her wish would have come true. This is what she got for not being ready. She would never let it happen again. If she ever got a second shot at wishing, words would not be her downfall. I wish that Mom and Dad were back together again, that's what she'd wish. But though she'd never believed in magic until fifteen minutes ago, she'd heard about wishing and how tricky that could be, so she'd say: I wish that Mom and Dad were back together again and that we'd all be happy again, forever and ever. That's what she'd wish for them, whether they wanted it or not. But she probably never would get a second shot at wishing. She probably wouldn't even exist tomorrow.

  Oliver put his hand on her arm, holding her back.

  "What—?" she started, but he put his finger to his lips.

  She looked around, saw nothing. Listened, heard nothing. She shook her head, but Oliver wasn't looking at her. He was continuing forward, but carefully, silently. Stalking, she thought.

  For the first time Deanna realized that while she had been absorbed in her thoughts, the linoleum had ended, leaving only a path through the forest. And, now that she thought about it, there had been no flashing arrows for quite a while. She looked behind. No sign of red polka dots. In fact, the path seemed narrower back there, and overgrown, which she hadn't noticed as they'd walked. She checked forward to see the condition of the path where they had to go. Wide and clear as far as she could see—which, with the ups and downs and weaving between trees, admittedly wasn't far.

  Oliver was developing quite a lead despite the fact that he was obviously taking care to move quietly.

  She took one final glance backward. The path had faded in the last couple of seconds, narrower yet, and—not twenty feet from her—a large tree had sprouted. Its gnarled roots and the cherry blossoms that had fallen from its branches obliterated much of the path where they had just passed. Cherry blossoms in August? Even as she watched, the cherries formed, then ripened, then browned and withered and dropped to the ground.

  She ran to catch up to Oliver. He stopped immediately, with a scowl for all her noise. She grabbed his arm. "Did you see—"

  This time he laid his finger against her lips. Now she could hear it too: voices, coming from up ahead. "Someone to help us?" she guessed. "Since the fair folk led us here?"

  Oliver gave her that look again—the one that indicated she was an idiot but he was too polite to say so.

  She walked beside him, wondering how her slippered feet could make more noise than his boots.

  The trees thinned. She could hear the voices more clearly. A horse whinnied. Harnesses jangled. Deanna and Oliver stopped short at the edge of a clearing. It was bigger—though not much—than a football field.

  There were two canvas-draped pavilions, one at each end of the field, both aflutter with flags. Several men milled about. They wore brightly colored tunics and tights, and most had swords strapped to t
heir waists, though none, mercifully, had Day-Glo hair. They seemed divided into two groups, each centered around one of the pavilions. No, wait a minute. Deanna caught her breath. Centered around one of the two men who were steadfastly ignoring each other, dressed in chain-mail armor.

  "Knights," Deanna whispered, remembering the stories she had read about Arthur and Charlemagne and El Cid. Defend the weak and come to the aid of ladies in distress: she knew the code of chivalry. Well, she was a lady in distress!

  "Nights?" Oliver asked. He made as if to stop her, but she sidestepped him.

  "Knights," she repeated, more loudly, more confidently. She pushed a branch out of her way, stepping into the clearing. "Knights can help us."

  "Nights?" she heard Oliver repeat. But he trusted her, he followed.

  "Hello," she called, approaching the nearer group.

  That knight, who was getting shin protectors strapped on over his chain mail, glanced at her, then returned his attention to his attendants.

  "Ahm ... Excuse me?" What if he spoke French? Come to that, what if he spoke English? That was no guarantee he'd understand her or she'd understand him: she remembered how her ninth-grade English class had studied Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, and she had certainly not understood that Her voice was beginning to fade. "Excuse me?"

  The knight looked up again. "Well, come on, girl. Don't dawdle." She understood him perfectly, which made no sense at all. She decided not to worry about it. He waved her closer.

  Deanna didn't look at Oliver for fear of seeing an I-told-you-so expression on his face. But she was aware of him walking beside her, warily evaluating the small crowd.

  Gingerly she approached until she stood right before the knight.

  He ignored her. He was a young man, though older than Oliver, and he had a droopy mustache that gave him a sad, whimsical look. His attendants were helping him get into metal gloves. Across the field, the other knight and his people were doing much the same.

  "Ahm..She cleared her throat. "Hello."