Chapter 11: Cavalry on a Dark Horse

Akewillow Chapter Eleven Cavalry on a Dark Horse Would it be disingenuous of me to wish for the demon again? Of course, I'm not serious. But I just got my first real win since coming to this town. And I really needed that win. But then these two idiots show up to ruin everything. By two idiots, I mean the so-called Inquisition. My first reaction when Detective Wilson had told me about them was, of course, to laugh it off. The Inquisition? In this day and age?

No one else seemed to take them seriously either. Then they threatened to ruin me if I so much as dabbled in witchcraft. Not the pyres and hangings of yore, but the audacity to try and intimidate me like that. Now, after seeing what I believe to be my first ghost, after I've tried my hand at a little cooking magic, They happen to show up. And I can't take them so lightly anymore. Because between demons and ghosts, Akewillow has made a point of telling me that I'm either mad...

Or there is such a thing as the supernatural. I thought we gave you fair warning, Miss Dufour, Orléans says, stepping closer to me. Briefcase in one hand, he scratches Oswald behind the ears as he passes. The enormous dog might as well be a horse next to the Inquisitor's diminutive stature. I'm surprised that the massive canine doesn't offer more resistance to his home being invaded so brazenly. Julia wasn't exaggerating.

Oswald is a pushover and worthless as a guard dog. Then again, why would a monster dog feel threatened by this tiny man? Surely, when Alessandria gets closer... Nope. In fact, that oaf just rolls over for a belly rub, which I'm surprised to see the taciturn woman indulge. Useless, I mutter. Pardon? Alessandria asks, standing tall and puffing out her chest. I swear, it's like the woman is looking for something to punch every minute of every day. You can't come in here.

My voice booms with more anger than authority. And again, isn't that always the case when I decide to stand up to the arrogant? It's how I talk to Chef Gagnon. This is how I talk to whoever I feel is overstepping their boundaries. I suppose from someone older, it might come off as commanding, but from some girl barely stepping into adulthood, it probably sounds petulant. At least, that's how it feels, judging by Orléans' condescending expression.

My dear girl, he says, voice fit to comfort the grieving. The Inquisition goes where it pleases. And I guess they do. I'm certainly not going to be the one to stop them. I can call the police, I suppose, but by the time they get here, who knows what will have happened to me. Last time I crossed paths with them...

They threatened all sorts of bureaucratic punishment for a crime I didn't even know I could commit. I want to disbelieve the very possibility of their accusation. Me? A witch? Ridiculous.

But I've done it, haven't I? I've cast an actual spell. Okay, so Julia is the one who supplied the intent, the emotional connection needed to reach out to her husband. But I'm the one who took the magic from Doris's grimoire of recipes and made it real. Tradition dictates that I deny the evidence as long as possible, clinging to my skeptical beliefs. But all things considered...

The truth is more terrifying and exhilarating than I could have imagined. I didn't do anything, I deny, stepping back from the Inquisitor. Lies, Alessandria yells, her finger extended in my direction in accusation. Even Oswald jumps at her words. You've meddled with the dead, branding yourself a necromancer and a diabolist. She walks towards me. They both do, and I back away from the entrance. I'm ready to trace my steps back to the widow Remington and ask for her assistance.

This is her house, after all, and maybe she can order Oswald to bark or growl or do anything that could intimidate the Inquisitors away. Even if there's nothing in her power that she can do to chase these two idiots away, at least there would be two of us. Then maybe we can reason with them or stall them long enough to get the police to intervene.

My thoughts drift back to Julia, her head resting on the arm of her husband's ratty old couch, his ghostly hand on her knee while he eats orange poppy seed honey cake. Magic. orange poppy seed honey cake. That's right. It is magic. Julia and I poured her will into the baking of that cake and with it conjured Gary Remington's spirit. More than anything, my cake brought rest to the grieving and reunited the loving.

Maybe that's not as impressive as throwing fireballs or cutting some scantily clad stage assistant in half, but dammit if that's not magic in the purest form. And I'd rather die than let those two zealots in fancy suits disturb that rest. I step forward. Fine, I say, chin high and with barely a tremor in my voice.

I did it. It's hard to tell what I expected to happen. The threats levied on me were of a purely bureaucratic and financial nature. Gone is the inquisition of old with their stoning and burning at the stake. Hangings and drowning, they said, are a thing of the past, replaced by more modern means of punishment. It'd be the equivalent of being exiled to the edge of the village, except that I wouldn't need to move to a house in the forest to be cast to the fringes of society.

assuming they really do have the power to bring such consequences to bear. The clicking of hard heels on marble floor echoes through the room in time with Alessandria's feet meeting their shadow. She towers over me, looming with menace. She's like a redwood looking down on a fern, blocking the moonlight from the door and promising to suffocate me with her presence.

Are you sure? she asks, and Oswald whimpers at her words. Am I? All I did was bake a cake. But through that cake, the dead manifested. It is tempting to point the finger at Julia. She looks the part so much better than I do. I dress like a lazy barista while I've yet to see her wear anything but black. It's her ghost and her giant empty house.

If anyone stands out as a witch. I set my jaw and straighten my spine. I try to find Alessandria's eyes in the silhouette of her face so I can stare her down. I want to project defiance into her before I get struck down by the wrath of the Inquisition. Positive, I respond. Perfect.

The word is forced out of Alessandria's mouth like she's evicting it against its will. The fists at her side flex and tighten before releasing with reluctance. She was hoping for a fight, and I denied her the pleasure. Whatever rage is diluted in this woman's blood will have to wait until another day to be released. I hope in the meantime that it burns her. Perfect, Orléans clamors from behind his partner.

Stepping around the useless dog, the short inquisitor jogs over to join us, his precious leather briefcase held in front of him like a favored toy. I'm so glad you've decided to come clean, Miss Dufour, he says, releasing the brass clips to access his documents. Inquisitorial interrogations can get quite messy. My eyes roll to the back of my head far enough that I think I see myself in the mirror behind me. I'm sure it's as much torture as doing my taxes. They look at each other.

A wordless conversation exchanged with their eyes, and Orléans' smile falters. Oh, oh no, he says. Punishments may have evolved with the times, but interrogations... Well, much like the human spirit has changed little, so have interrogation techniques. Don't worry. Now that you've admitted your wrongs, we can skip all those unpleasant questioning methods and focus on your confession.

A wad of saliva gets stuck in my throat as I try to swallow. Is he implying that they still torture people to get answers? What kind of maniacs are these? And here we go! Orléans, like a stage magician, produces yet another stack of legal papers and pulls out a fancy ivory pen. The writing implement has a soft glow in the trickling moonlight, as if emanating its own light in harmony with the moon.

So far, I've been much too cavalier in my reaction to these two, treating them like some kind of joke. That was a mistake. In Aquilo, nightmares are real. Ghosts and demons and their more terrifying human counterparts are all real. Here are some release forms for you to go over.

We wouldn't need to go through all this if you had signed the warning we issued earlier, but here we are. Then, once you've familiarized yourself with the formalities, you'll have to come with us. Orléans' voice fades away as my patience wanes.

I don't care about his stupid paper, and I'm certainly not going anywhere with them. I've made this mistake before, and it took Helen Edna, notary public, to pull me out of that situation. I doubt she'll show up on a white horse to save me this time. For a fleeting moment, I think of using civility again. There's nothing to gain by screaming and kicking. No insult in my arsenal is so cutting that it would incapacitate a pair of zealots. But...

Maybe following the path of least resistance wouldn't be so bad. I'm definitely not going anywhere with them, but if I humor them, maybe I can get a stay of execution. So to speak. I just need to get them off my case long enough to leave town. Once I get back to Montreal, I can put Akewillow, demons, ghosts, and magic cakes behind me forever. But I'm not sure I want to put magic cakes behind me.

The only place I'm going is home. I hear the loud crack of knuckles and the shuffling of heels on hard floor. Alessandria's white teeth gleam like gems in the moonlight. Her wish is becoming reality. This is no longer optional, Miss Dufour, Orléans says, uneasy at his partner's hunger for violence. We've given you enough warning and leeway.

You are, after all, new to Akewillow, and we owe somewhat of a debt to your great-grandaunt. But at the end of the day, heresy is heresy. I'm not going anywhere with you. I say, as firmly as my wavering resolve can manage. Orléans shifts from one foot to another, clutching his papers like he does his hope that I might cooperate. Meanwhile, Alessandria looks eager to punch a confession out of me. Some traditions do die hard. Please, Miss Dufour, Orléans insists, with more of an edge to his words.

The harder you make this on us, the harder we have to be on you. You were so cooperative a moment ago. If my life were a movie... This is where you'd expect my good deeds to pay off somehow. I look towards Oswald as the shadow of Alessandria hides more and more of the moonlight. So far, her attitude hasn't ranged far beyond the limits of taciturn and hostile, but as she's moving in, I register an almost childlike joy in her dark eyes.

This would be a perfect time for the huge dog to notice that I helped his master and jumped to my defense. Alas, he's far more preoccupied by some of the papers Orléans spills on the marble tiles. The short Inquisitor is startled by one of Oswald's barks of delight watching the sheets flitter to the ground, but that's about all the support I can hope for from that corner.

I can imagine Gary Remington himself manifesting, his glowing wraith floating forth from a dark corridor behind me. How poetic that the ghost I fed would pay back the favor by scaring off those who oppose all things magical. I'd even settle for Julia herself coming down that corridor, phone in hand with the police on the other end. But life is hardly ever so tidy, and the savior I do get is the one I'd rather not have.

Now, why am I not surprised to find you two jokers here? Detective Wilson walks through the threshold, stinking of self-awareness. His pace is slow, as if a camera was tracking his steps. Both hands are dug deep into the pockets of his raincoat and his head is hung low, letting his dark brown hair obscure his features. He only looks up once he's done with his entrance, punctuating his question with a raised eyebrow.

If I weren't so angry at and afraid of the two inquisitors, I'd have laughed at how much the detective was basking in his horror of noir. Even his voice has an artificial slur to it. and a toothpick hangs from his lip in lieu of a cigarette. Detective Wilson, Orléans answers with an uncharacteristic bite to his tone. A bit outside your jurisdiction, aren't you?

Wilson doesn't answer immediately. Still playing his character, he smiles and plucks the toothpick from his mouth. After considering it for a second, he tosses it to the granite floor. He thinks he looks cool, but I'm just annoyed that someone, probably Julia, is going to have to pick that up. At least I have jurisdiction somewhere, Orléans.

Our jurisdiction is wherever sin can be found, Alessandria cuts in, her words blunt where she would rather be using her fists. That, in case you didn't know, extends to all of creation. I'm a good Christian, Wilson counters. I go to church on Sunday, I eat fish on Friday, the whole nine yards. But I know where the law of men starts and the rule of God begins.

nowhere do I see any room for the rule of clowns. The last word is spat out with a thick coat of contempt. I sense history here that Wilson hadn't confessed to when we first discussed the Inquisition. Hell, I didn't really picture the detective as being so devout. I wonder if I failed to notice because of his character, or because it's all part of the act. Souls, detective.

Orléans steps between his partner and Wilson, preventing a physical altercation, I'm sure. We are concerned with saving souls. That of Miss Dufour at this moment. As a fellow member of the faith, surely you share our concern. The good detective takes his hand out of his pockets and makes a show of pushing his raincoat aside, revealing his sidearm. I'm not sure what authority he has to use the weapon on this side of the border, but I don't care. I've had enough. Well, I say, stepping forward.

I'm not part of your faith, and I'm not a witch or cavorting with devils or whatever it is you're worried about. So if you don't mind... Chin high and with as much spinal fortitude as I can pretend to have, I start walking towards the door. I'm loathe to leave the Inquisitors, and Detective Wilson for that matter, behind in Julia's home.

The poor widow deserves to be left alone, but as long as I stay, I expect so will all of them. Where do you think you're going? Powerful fingers close around my wrist as I pass by Alessandria. Her grip isn't hard enough to hurt, but it feels inescapable. A fist of concrete sculpted around my arm. I want to say away or home, but the word gets stuck in my throat like badly swallowed food.

It won't go down, nor will it come back up. Instead, it sticks there, choking me. At this moment, I wish I was a real witch. I'm not sure if that's how any of this works, but casting a spell to escape or turning Alessandria into a frog or whatever sure would come in handy. Instead, I settle for an impotent pull at my wrist.

The tension in the air is thick as pancake batter, and even Oswald seems to start to pick up on it. Alessandria is a human pressure cooker ready to blow, and Wilson has his hand on his gun. Both look like they're looking for an excuse to escalate this further, and I can't imagine anyone capable of disarming the situation. Perhaps, Orléans says, putting his hand over his partners.

Perhaps we can come to a different solution. Our eyes meet for a moment as he pulls Alessandria's fingers off of my arm one at a time. There's a sincere apology somewhere deep inside, and I can almost believe that he indeed wants to save my soul. Orléans, Alessandria complains, more like an annoyed child than a full-grown woman. The detective is right, Aless. We are trespassing. Maybe we have overstepped our authority. Ten seconds pass by like we're all watching water, waiting for it to boil.

Oswald is the first to break the silence, whimpering and licking his chops, but it's Alessandria who breaks the tension. With a grunt, she sets her shoulders and looks down at me. Orléans' hand still holds onto her fingers as much to restrain her as to comfort her. Without further incident, both of them leave, neither bothering to look back at me or Detective Wilson.

I walk over to Oswald and scratch him behind the ears. The big guy is quivering a little, either from all the excitement or out of joy for the attention. My hands wrap around my arms as I step out into the night. a cold wind greeting me on the porch. I half expect Oswald to join me there, eager for more scratches, but he stays inside his home. I hope he goes to join Julia.

perhaps sitting at Gary's feet as he licks his ghostly fingers for the last crumb of my honey cake. I don't cherish the thought of walking back to the Aquilo alone in the dark. The Remington House is on the outskirts of the village. not too far from Fig's orchard. Maybe I should go knock on Olivia's door and take refuge at her place. But the figs have been good to me, and I've already imposed on them so much.

I hear myself chuckle when I see Detective Wilson's car in the driveway. At least, I assume it's his car. A beige Chevy Impala that's twice as old as I am. It's exactly the sort of vehicle I would have imagined the detective to drive. Completely on brand for his character. Need a lift? Instead of the harmless giant of a dog, it's the good detective who walks up behind me. As soon as I turn towards him, he leans on the white railing that embraces the Remington house.

he looks tired but a thin smile is stretched over his lower lip a smile of calm satisfaction promise you're not taking me out of the country this time His chuckle has a heartwarming sincerity, and I can almost forgive his previous offense. Almost. I'd rather not have Helen flay me alive and make a new purse out of my skin. He laughs again, but it's cut short. The humor of repurposed body parts falls flat on me. Yeah, I don't think it's funny either. He lies, responding to my obvious unease.

I look back at the front door of the Remington house. Wilson must have closed the door behind him, locking Oswald inside and sealing Julia in with her dead husband. Without a single light on, the whole place looks haunted. And for the first time, I think that's a good thing. Miriam, I think, you did good. Don't let any of these people tell you otherwise.

Before I know it, I'm standing on the passenger side of the Impala. The chrome on the door handle picks up the moon in a dazzling aura. My face is distorted in the reflection, and I can see white teeth on my silhouetted features. I'm smiling. Why were you here, detective? The doors unlock and I step inside the car. It smells of mint chewing gum and stale fast food.

The vehicle has none of the creature comforts I'm used to seeing in modern cars. No tactile display or electric adjustable mirrors. No digital odometer or heated seats. The Impala is like everything at Wilson's Precinct, a vestige of another time. I told you we were keeping an eye on you, he says, putting the key in the ignition and starting the engine.

It's a loud machine, and I'm surprised I didn't hear it arrive when I was in the house. Didn't think it'd be against the Inquisition, though. The car pulls out of the driveway, and I can see a grin of amused disbelief as Wilson leans over to look behind us. Are they dangerous? The question had been bothering me ever since I tossed Orléans and Alessandria out of the cafe. The tall Inquisitor is certainly threatening, but would she really hurt me? Orléans seemed to think so.

That's the thing, Wilson says, eyes straying from the road a little too often for my taste. I don't know. No one does. Aside from Doris, no one that ran afoul of them stayed in Aquilo. They just leave? No idea. Everyone the Inquisition sets their sights on vanish from Aquilo. And if we track them down, we find a new address and social security details and everything, but any attempt to actually contact any of them fails. The car suddenly feels cramped, like the air had been sucked out.

The smell of sugar and peppermint mingling with old grease and salt pulls up the bile from my stomach. I roll the window down, hoping the air outside is of some help, but I only trade the odor of gum and food for that of manure from a nearby farm. Detective Wilson doesn't seem too invested in his private investigator persona right now, but the description of vanishing residents fits right into his brand. So, it's intimidation?

Intimidation, murder, or maybe nothing. We've got zilch to go on, and no actual crimes are committed, so we can only investigate so much before we're told to pack it up. They say that New York is the city that never sleeps, and it does feel that way. And Montreal is kind of like that too. Except Montreal is a different city from one time of day to the other.

Obviously, it's much more alive in the evenings and on weekends, but it never completely slumbers. There's always a heartbeat if you put your ear to the pavement. Even at the coldest time of night, you'll hear it thumping. Montreal shops during the day, eats in the evening, and dances at night. But after that, it takes you into its boudoir for a drink and intimate conversation.

That's how Aquilo feels all the time. The strangeness of the citizens feels like the small town has nothing to hide. All its quirks and peculiarities are laid bare for the world to see. Aquilo is always leaning in and telling you its secrets. And all of those secrets hide more secrets. The old LCD clock on the forward paneling of the dashboard claims it's 1.35 in the morning. Yet, despite the lack of any nightlife to speak of, there's still a few people wandering about.

Cloud worshipers, who look dressed as ghosts, wander the edge of town in a group. They smile and nod as the car passes them, and Wilson answers by rolling his eyes. A group of kids my age are loitering in front of a convenience store, probably gathering snacks and drinks for whatever night they have planned. I say kids, realizing that I'm not any older than they are, but I feel like I'm from a different generation.

So much has changed since coming to Aquilo. So many responsibilities have crept up to my shoulders. So much of the world's clothing has been pulled back, revealing a naked skin I never knew was there. I envy those kids. I hope I can be one of them again soon. They're right, though, I say, unable to stand the silence any longer. Who's right? The Inquisition. They're right about me being a heretic.

or whatever. Wilson chuckles. I can't tell if he's making fun of me or the way I went about my confession. My words come out so matter-of-fact. my arm leaning on the car door without any hand wringing, nor my pulling at strands of my hair. I might as well have told him I took one of his pieces of gum from the otherwise empty ashtray.

Wilson pulls over into the convenience store parking lot. Red and blue neon lights spill down on us through the windshield, promising cases of beer at unbeatable prices. One of the kids walks by and yells, nice car, pig, through the windshield. He and his buddies seem overdressed for the weather, obviously favoring style over comfort.

They all have branded hoodies with distressed prints on the front and torn black jeans. The only distinguishing feature between them are their hairstyles and the unique combination of piercings on their face. It reminds me that I used to have a lip ring, but... I fell off, and I never bothered putting it back on. Isn't this a school night, Jordan? Maybe that would matter if I were still in school, Aaron.

Jordan gives Wilson a broad smile, more sincere than their conversation suggested. I guess they know each other. Small towns, I suppose. The kids walk off, their purchases in a gray plastic bag. Chips and drinks from the look of it. What did you do? Wilson finally asks. For the first time, I wonder exactly how much Detective Aaron Wilson knows about the demons and ghosts of his city.

Am I about to come off as a woman who stumbled onto the deep mysteries of his hometown? Or am I going to sound like some delusional girl spouting off nonsense? My eyes close and I take a deep breath. It feels like the first time I jumped off the high board at the pool when I was six. I helped Julia Remington bring back her husband, Gary. It's out, and I'm falling. Chlorine-smelling air rushes by me and my heart races.

There's no going back, but also, there's nothing more to lose. Not bring back completely, I add. Just his ghost, or spirit, or revenant. And not just like with a Ouija board or something. I did it with a cake. A cake and a sigil. And I'm not making any sense to you, am I? Wilson turns his head, tilting it to the left in the process and lifting one eyebrow in apparent confusion. You what? I hit the water. Conjured a ghost. With a cake. Orange poppy seed honey cake. He laughs.

Not the cynical laugh of the grizzled private detective in a black-and-white film from the 40s. It's an honest, guttural laugh where Wilson goes as far as to throw his head back. Like Gulliver does. I can't tell if he's laughing with me or at me. I can't tell if I'm swimming to the surface or further down to the bottom. Detective Wilson wipes a tear from his eye and looks at me again, as if discovering me for the first time.

Yeah, he says. I see the resemblance now. Not the physical one, but the way you act and speak. I couldn't see it at first, but now? Now it's clear. Doris? Of course it's Doris. She's the benchmark by which everyone has been measuring me since I got to Aequilo. She's why Gulliver and Helen Edna, notary public, don't want me to leave. She's why the Inquisition got on my back in the first place.

From the painter with the mustache to the white-robed cultists, everyone here expects me to be Doris. Even Julia only came to me because she thought I would know how to do what my great-grandaunt used to do. But she was right. Yes, Doris, Wilson answers. I've never seen it for myself, and it took me a while, and some very convincing testimony before I took it seriously, but I've always heard that there was something about her, about her cooking.

So you've got the gift too? I look down at my feet. I'm still wearing the sneakers I had on when I first came to Aquilo. They're my comfortable shoes, the ones I wear when I know I'm going to be walking a lot. or standing for a long time. They're my travel sneakers, with the laces tied loose so I don't have to untie them to take them off. I don't know. I don't think so. I followed some instructions she left behind. That's all.

Nothing the Inquisition should be harassing me over, anyways. Ah well. Wilson starts, his eyes moving back to the bright neon sign, his hand drawing circles in the air in a dismissive fashion. You know the drill. It's a slippery slope from conjuring ghosts to summoning demons. Once you've got a taste for witchcraft and heresy, it's hard to go back. He's joking, but it's true. The pleasure of baking Julia's cake and the satisfaction of breaking the code of how to make it was intoxicating.

But it's not the power itself or even the wonder of participating in something bigger and stranger than myself that felt like feeding an addiction. It was the pleasure of seeing Julia get her rest. When Gary Remington's ghostly hand reached out to squeeze her knee, I felt a warmth and comfort I hadn't experienced before I fell in love with Trevor. It was a new me, reaching out to drink from an older version of myself. When I think of that, I can imagine wanting to do more.

If this is what Doris brought to the community, if this is what she experienced while offering her services to people like Julia, then I think I can understand my great-grandaunt just a little better. Detective Wilson I ask. He's still smiling, the aftershock of honest laughter, but his smile fades when he notices my expression. My brow furrowed and my lips thin. He sees what I'm about to ask him. How did Doris die? Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot, narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost.

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