An old diary is given to the new owners of a house in Cambria, California. Designed by famous architect Julia Morgan, it has some oddities - including a spiral staircase in the backyard, leading to nowhere. What they discover involves old Welsh magi...
The next morning, Anne settled herself into her 'Writer's Den' – a small room that must have once been meant as a nursery. The walls were hand-painted, from floor to ceiling, with fantastical creatures that were not out of a Grimm Fairy tale. No - it was as if you'd placed pictures of zoo animals, everyday critters like cats, dogs, birds, fish, and animals from all over the world – cut them up, put them in a pot and reassembled them while blindfolded. It was equal parts endearing and disturbing.
We didn't paint over it, because Anne adored it. She placed her prized possession, an ancient typewriter from (strangely enough) 1910 on a small table. She placed a simply made child's chair that had been left behind in front of it. Letters carved into it read 'Bran.' Her desk was her grandmother's old walnut kitchen table, to which her grandfather had added two spacious rows of Maplewood drawers reclaimed from thrift stores and a central Cherry wood drawer that had been the only surviving piece of an English rolltop desk. Anne's only concession to modern times was her high-tech desk chair, complete with vibrating massage, temperature control and anti-lock brakes. (Just kidding!)
"Play nice with the other locals," she said, giving me a kiss and closing the door behind her. I took the car keys and was about to leave the house when I heard a crow call. It was in the middle of the pathway, looking at me with that gaze of intelligence that's both alien and yet oddly human. I went back and grabbed a few grapes from the fridge and threw them to him. Not sure why I thought it was male.
It picked one up, broke it open and swallowed it in three motions. "See you later, Eddie. Watch over this place while I'm gone, okay?" Eddie, for Edgar Allen Poe. He tilted his head, cawed once, and kept eating. The bushes at the far end of the front yard rustled, as if a squirrel had disturbed it. I made a mental note to pick up some peanuts and drove into Cambria.
I'm a journalist, currently writing for The Atlantic – yes, that Atlantic. I'd promised them a series of articles on everyday life in small-town America – I thought of myself as the love child of Garrison Keillor and Erma Bombeck, with some Fran Lebowitz genes thrown in for spice. In spite of it being a day's drive from San Francisco, Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo, Cambria qualifies for a small town, with a population of just under 6,000 people. It's 'unincorporated territory,' which means that, although it has its own Post Office and Library, it does not have a mayor of its own. It does have a town council. A little unusual in this day and age, but then, the town itself is a little unusual.
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It's financially powered, as so many California coastal towns are, by tourism. It is peopled with artists and writers of all kinds, Hearst Castle is just a few miles north, and there are dozens of BnBs and hotels, motels and cottage rentals all along the highway, many owned and operated by locals. Today, though, I just wanted to wander. I parked on Wall Street and had a delightful brunch at Linn's Restaurant. There was an elderly couple sitting next to me, who asked if I was visiting relatives. I told them that I'd just moved into the old Morgan house.
The woman gave me a surprised look; the man smiled warmly. "Welcome, neighbor! I'm Frankie Tambini, and this here's my wife, Anna Lucia."
"It will be good for that house to have some life and laughter in it, after so many years!" beamed Anna.
I sipped my coffee, washing down the stuffed French toast. "Do you know if there's anyone in Cambria who might have known Bertha Draconis?"
"My father knew her. You're welcome to come by my practice – I'm the local G.P. – and talk to him. He likes to chat with his old patients, so he's around most days. Do you play chess?"
"A little," I admitted, "although it's been years."
"Even better! He'll teach you GwyddBwyll," said Dr. Tambini with delight.
"What's that?" I asked.
"It's an old Welsh board game that, as he tells it, your Miss Draconis taught him."
I sadly struggled to swallow my olallieberry muffin, and exclaimed, "I read somewhere that she was happy to have left Wales."
Anna Lucia laughed. "Why would someone leave Wales just to settle down in another Wales?
"I don't understand," I replied.
"My dear, Cambria is Latin for 'Wales.' Didn't you know?" We were both startled by a loud squawk, as a crow pecked at the restaurant window. A slight chill went down my spine. The Tambinis left, and when it was my turn to leave, imagine my surprise to discover that they'd paid my bill.
I left my waitress an extra tip, bought a half-dozen assorted muffins and walked back to my car, when I noticed a black shape hopping around several boxes that someone had left by their trash bin. The house had a 'For Sale' sign. Another 'caw' drew my attention, as Eddie (it had to be him) tapped his beak against something. When he stared at me, I knew that look.
A minute later he was airborne, his beak clutching the large hunk of apricot-blueberry muffin I'd thrown to him. In the box was a doorknob set, ornately carved brass complete with keyplates. Another missing piece of the Draconis house?
I drove a short distance to Moonstone Beach, sat down and began to write in my notebook. An hour or so later I went home with a few ideas and several questions, mostly about Miss Draconis.
