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...
You'd never know, from simply walking in and buying a simple popular paperback, that there was a second and third story. There was a small, handicapped accessible elevator behind the store, protected from the elements by a short hall leading to the back door, the parking lot and Main Street.
There was a table on the lower level, with stacks of Anne's works that she'd signed. Those higher-priced copies would have the signing fee donated to the Cambria Public Library, and the store's 'My Own Book' project, which gave a free book to all first graders that had chosen one for themselves from a list. The second floor was full of rare and antique books, as well as a corner for book repair. The third floor was a meeting room with a small kitchen and a collapsible stage. Writing workshops, staged readings, guest authors and lecturers all made use of the cozy space.
"This is quite an impressive business for an independent bookstore in a small town," I commented to Miss Rita Periwinkle, a young English teacher at the local Middle School. She looked at me with surprise.
"Though Cambria may be a small town, I believe that since the birth of the Internet, the isolation normally associated with small towns no longer applies. My son chats daily with friends in London, New Delhi, Tokyo and Sydney. It is true, though," she sighed, "that independent bookstores worldwide are in a heated, life-or-death battle with Amazon."
I nodded. "It's up to us booklovers to keep those bookstores and our libraries alive."
"Here, here!" replied two women behind us, whose nametags identified them as Library volunteers.
The afternoon whizzed by like a flight of bees, full of the fascinating mixed buzz of gossip and serious conversations. Anne and I met more locals, gained several more open-ended invitations to potlucks and dinners, and stuffed ourselves with tarts, pinwheels and scones from the French Corner Bakery. Finally, it was just Fay, her son Scott and his boyfriend Niall, and Miss Periwinkle. Most of the tables and chairs had been put in a storage room, and the large Tea Samovar and mugs washed and cleared away.
"Thank you all so much for the extra help," Fay said, collapsing into a large easy chair. "Most of the signed copies were sold, and we made our fundraising goal for this year's 'My Own Book' project."
"And I think someone bought the rest of 'Sama has Two Mommas' and gave them to Emily. They're just the right size to sleep on, in her opinion," Niall reported with a smile, and Scott mussed his hair. I caught Anne looking at me and figured now was as good a time as any to begin. And although it felt awkward – even though I'd done the same countless times before in the newsroom – I stood up and spoke.
"You all know that Anne and I have recently moved here, into what everyone affectionately or cautiously calls 'The Morgan House.' Fay, you gave us an old book, saying that 'the world wasn't ready for it.' But it was locked. You couldn't have read it. So, did you know what it was? How did you get it?"
A sly grin played around Fay's face. "Scott, bring out the Penderyn Wisgi and the Cwtch Red Ale." Her dark-haired son disappeared down the stairs. "Sit down, Lillian. The spirits are in Bertha's honor."
The bookseller began, "My Great Uncle Bran was Bertha's only happiness later in life. She..."
"Bertha?" interrupted Rita Periwinkle, "You mean Old Batty Bertha, the woman who disappeared?"
"The very same," stated Fay. "She came from Wales, and believed she brought more than just memories with her. She thought she brought the Fae. She babbled that to me once, the year before she vanished. I was six years old, and she'd come to visit Bran. They were lovers, once. Bran disappeared before she did. Ahh!"
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Scotty arrived in the elevator, holding a tray that had 4 cans of Cwtch Red Ale, a tall bottle of Penderyn Welsh Whiskey, and six shot glasses. First, he poured the shots. Niall handed them out. "Iachyd Da!" Fay toasted. [author's note: Ya-key-dah]
"Three days after Bran disappeared, Bertha stopped me on my way home from school. She was furtively looking everywhere, as if she were being followed. She pressed the book into my hands and told me I'd know who to give it to when I saw him or her. She promised me she'd bring Bran back. And that was the last I saw of her."
"What an odd story!" exclaimed Rita, who then looked at me. "What's happened, then? I assume strange things have recently happened. You must have found a way to open the book, am I right? What's in it?"
I believe we all must have been staring at her with open mouths, because Fay produced a hearty belly laugh. "I believe you've met our very own She-lock Holmes, President of the Charmed I'm Sure Mystery Book Club." Rita's cheeks turned a deep rose pink.
"It's a logical conclusion," she offered, quietly.
Anne explained, in a much more concise manner, the events relayed in Bertha's diary and the events which had happened to us. "As you can see," she explained, "We're a bit out of our depth here. I'm no expert on Welsh mythology, but as a writer of children's books I've a solid background in fairy tales."
I jumped in, adding "I'm a reporter and writer of news articles, and rather than comb through decades of print news, I'd like to hear about creepy goings-on or local urban myths that are more current. So, if any of you know something, or someone who I might speak with who does, I'd appreciate it."
Niall spoke up immediately. "There's been reports of shapes seen in quite a few of the big fires – eyes in the trees, that sort of thing. I'm a fireman, by the way." Well, I thought, that explains the muscles. "Also, some guys have reported seeing snakes of fire on the ground, but they're usually seeing a fire line spread. "
"Child-like laughter in the Pine Knolls," said Fay.
Scott chimed in with "And in the Fiscalini Pine Preserve."
Rita stammered, "And the B...B...Burton Drive Trail! What? I don't g...g...go there after five in the afternoon anymore."
"Pets go missing, and if they're found – it's ghastly," replied Scott.
"These are promising," I answered – a phrase in newspeak that usually means "thank you, that's probably useless."
Fay snapped her fingers. "Once a month, in the first week, I find that there's a few things missing from my grocery bags. It happens to a lot of people, but different ones each time. The police think it's the homeless."
"There are homeless people in Cambria?" I ask incredulously.
Anne looks at me sadly. "The homeless are everywhere, hon. Sometimes they're hard to see. Some dress very well, and many are well-educated. Thank you, Fay. That's something I might address in my next kid's book. It isn't a crime to be homeless."
"Hey," said Rita, "Would you be willing to invite us to your diary readings? I don't mean to impose, but the old saying 'Many hands make light work' has always held true for me. Only in this case, it would be more like 'Many points of view lead to better understanding.' Or maybe have a gathering on a Saturday or Sunday, and we can talk about what new things you've learned. What do you say?"
We agreed to give the latter a try and set a date for a potluck brunch on Sunday. We were about to leave, saying good night to Fay, when Emily wound around Anne's legs, and dropped a very pink catnip cigar in front of her feet. She bent down and scratched the cat's head. "What's this, Miss Dickinson?"
Fay laughed. "It's a gift from her to your cat."
"But I don't..." she began and stopped to look at me.
"You will, my dear," Fay purred, "I assure you, she's done this before, and is never wrong."
