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...
California weather is as stubborn and fickle as a teenager – there are weeks where the sky is heavily overcast, but it's only clouds over you while it pours ten miles away. Or it's clear skies and warm temps predicted all week, only to have sweater weather and drizzles for seven days. That day we had rain, appearing out of nowhere.
The kitchen was warm with the aroma of twice-baked croissants. We'd been given the leftovers from last night's gathering. Anne mixed softened cream cheese with a teaspoon of maple syrup and pecans, and stuffed the croissants with them, baking them again for a few minutes before they were ready to be stuffed again – this time, inside of us. A few of those, paired with pecan flavored coffee, began our day with inner sunshine.
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"How's your new story coming?" I asked.
"So far, so good. 'Peter No-Tail' just needs a little polishing and primping, a little pruning here and a little padding there, before its literary journey can begin. My agent liked my first draft, so keep your fingers crossed." Anne winked. "What's up for you today?"
"The Public Library today, to do a little research on unexplained events and paranormal goings-on. And I've an afternoon assignation." I bumped my eyebrows in a mock innuendo of suggested untoward activities. "A Gwyddbwyll game with the elder Tambini."
The Library, as it turned out, had little access to official reports of 'unusual goings-on' – but the volunteer who assisted me was a goldmine. She confirmed that there had always been reports of 'fairies laughing' in the forests. She also personally had been a victim of grocery theft; not only that, but she added that clothing was occasionally missing from people's yards where they hung laundry out to dry, as far back as her great-great-great grandmother's time.
She directed me towards an artist, Howard Nimble Hands, who was part Chumash and had been a policeman for 50 years before retiring. His studio was in a garage off of Main Street. He told me that there were several incidents of what appeared to be vandalism, usually involving slashed tires, odd graffiti scratched into auto windshields, or large tree trunks deliberately dragged from where they'd been cut or fallen to block a hiking trail. Sometimes the footprints were of boots and sneakers, and others...weren't, and that's all Howard would say.
His statuary and pottery were magnificent; I bought a piece that would hang nicely over our front door – a pair of beautifully rendered, curving stag antlers with violets and white roses curling around them. I arrived at the Tambinis' house just after 12 noon and presented the elder dottore with a bottle of grappa that I'd bought on a trip to Venice but had never opened.
He beamed and insisted that I address him as 'Papa.' We toasted each other's health and enjoyed a plate of crostini with homemade basil and cherry tomato pesto with balls of mozzarella. He watched as I carefully set up the board. It was easy to remember, as there were five of my pieces to eight of his. Except...
"Today, I will play the defending King, and you shall play the invading army."
