“A moment.” Wilbur held my arm before we rejoined Woodrow below.

His bag knocked me softly on my side as he reached for me. The was never a time when it was empty; through so many journeys it simply stretched its mouth and swallowed and stored potions, elixirs, and odd ingredients. This old, dark-brown fabric held so many wonders, that it was a wonder itself. I was waiting for it to burst at the seams but it always managed to faithfully hold on.

And now, within its contents, it keeps a vile thing. I imagined the miasma as a scurrying rat stashed there, squirming within all his bottles.

“What?”

Wilbur let go of my arm, his eyes darting back to the door. Claude and Joan were talking softly on the other side; murmurs mingled with soft laughter. He rummaged through his pockets and his belt, pulled out pouches containing chamomile, lavender, and vanilla beans. He added them to a thick syrup that smelled faintly of cypress and pine cones. Wilbur shook it, then poured the mixture near the door. “Into vapor,” he whispered. “Make them sleep.”

Thick liquid turned to pleasant smoke. It flowed through the crack under the door. “My, that’s a wonderful smell,” Joan said. Yawns followed the comment not long after. I frowned at Wilbur. He just made lullaby, our name for his perfected sleeping vapor—perfect currently, until he discovers a better one.

He sighed, looking within his bag. From the way he looks over it, you’d think that it had endless space. “That’s that. I have used up almost all my useful ingredients.” He spotted my frown. “It would be better if they do not see us leave,” he explained. “Especially that Claude. He’s quite perceptive, and quite drawn to you. His curiosity will bring him doom.”

“Wasn’t ‘lullaby’ a bit excessive?” There were other sleeping draughts; milder ones that were sufficient enough to make the mind dull with drowsiness.

But Wilbur merely nodded. “It’s meant to be. It also induces good dreams. They would wake up well-rested and doting on little Anika all day, and still have the strength to do their chores.”

Wilbur stood, but briefly looked unsteady. He placed a hand on the wall. He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. All that alchemy–compound manipulation, to be precise–must be taking its toll on him.

Wilbur considered something, and then he reached for his side pockets and handed me a small bag that sounded like it was full of marbles when I jiggled it. “It’s my special mixed seeds. I just want you to have it.”

I hung it around my neck and tucked it securely under my tunic. I didn’t mind that it was pressing on my chest a little.

“I don’t want anyone to know of this yet, but there was something else with the miasma when I studied Anika’s condition.” Wilbur’s brows furrowed. “I thought it was simply a trick of all the candle lights, causing the dust to swirl and shimmer. But when things looked bleak… when you were busy preparing ‘childsplay’, the swirling motes formed the shape of a fish.”

His description hung in the air. “A fish?” I repeated.

Wilbur nodded. He looked unnerved. His fingers trailed the shape of what he saw. “Its scales flashed briefly when Anika was convulsing. I saw it circle around her head, then the length of her body, then it swam through my bag. It flicked my nose with its tail. I think it was telling me what to do.”

“A sentient silent fish formed of motes?”

He nodded again. His eyes were awaiting judgement for his silly report. The rest of the brothers might look down at him and quickly disregard this as childish nonsense, but me?

I shrugged. “I sensed a presence in the fireplace when we entered. Did you see anything there? Or was the warmth just that pleasant?”

“I’m afraid I did not see nor feel anything,” Wilbur answered. He was relieved that I was entertaining his observation. “Just the usual fireplace warmth. But I am certain I was not imagining the glowing, translucent fish, Erin. Saints above, it is not like me to spout such things. If I was a real practitioner of medicine, my license would be torn right in front of me.”

I chuckled. “Wilbur. You can create vapor from powdered gemstones and plants. You can harvest raw power from crude ores. You can heal the sick and wounded better than any doctor. You are over a century old. I’m sure that seeing an apparition form out of dust particles wouldn’t be that far of a stretch from our norm.”

I thought that Anika could not have survived that whole ordeal on her own, anyway. Maybe someone was helping her. I looked up at him, my face open. “Do you think it could be her guardian angel?” I remember the offering Joan left on the windowsill. Maybe the pagan gods were listening.

Wilbur returned the same courtesy; he did not laugh or think my idea odd. He was always ready to entertain the unsolved, and it was always in his nature to consider wild guesses. He’d make an excellent teacher, too. The total opposite of Knox, I noted to myself.

He tapped his chin. “I hope so. If monsters such as us exist, then I should hope a kinder presence could thwart the likes of us.” He smiled, eyes closed. His finger rubbed one arched eyebrow. “We shall add it to the pile of mysteries on our plates.”

I pressed my ear to the door. They were snoring now. One deep and comical, and another light and content. I imagined Joan and Claude holding Anika’s hands; one each. And Anika, herself, well, I hope she greets the dawn of a new day with bright eyes. I hope, after all that, they wouldn’t ever face what we were about to.

I jumped at the sudden noise from downstairs. It sounded like wooden bowls rolling around on the floor. As we headed back to the kitchens, I thanked Wilbur’s good sense. Claude would have bolted downstairs before any of us could stop him if he had heard that. I wondered if Woodrow could charm him into forgetting us, if that was possible within the content of his powers.

_____

We had run out of time.

The moment my boots landed on their living room floorboards, I felt the unwelcome shift in the air. What was once a warm and welcoming scene was now being invaded by that terrible chill. Woodrow was nowhere to be seen.

The door hung limply from its frame, permitting icy winds to enter the cottage and snuff out all the candles, along with the mellow mirth we shared not long ago. The only light and sound came from the dying flame in the hearth. If there was a presence there, it was weak.

Wilbur moved quickly. One blast of wind blew his cowl behind him, showing his face serious and determined.

He wanted to go outside on his own. “Stay here,” he said.

“I think not,” I retorted.

Before we went out, I fed the fireplace all the remaining wood in their pile, so it can chase the chill away. I hoped Joan wouldn’t mind. As I placed each log on their hearth, all the stories that were passed this evening and all the stories that were passed over the fire so many nights ago settled altogether my mind. Images sprung forth; of Xilthea, of other spirits mentioned, like Wilbur’s golden fish, of guardians in the forest that people say helped the saints in their holy quest. Then, of us “monks”, of our oddities, of our darker path. And finally, the recent horror that was the enchanted flame and the artifact mirror and the darkness that devours.

Anything can happen this evening. So why not believe wholeheartedly that there is a spirit living here, too, in this cottage, in this hearth, connected to people as pure and kind and good as Joan, Claude, and maybe Anika, too?

I stirred the ashes of the fireplace, stacked the logs in a way that they can steadily burn until morning. The fire began to taste its food appreciatively. Again, I remember the wall of flame. I held my hand over the fire, testing if it would harm me. It did. I retracted it quickly when I felt the sharp burn stab my skin. Oh, well, I thought. Whatever that enchanted flame was, it wasn’t this. I wonder if Wilbur was able to make something like that?

The fire grew, giddily consuming the first layer of logs. I watch it grow larger, trying to see if there was a shape, a swimming fish, a face. Nothing. The fire simply stared back at me with ember eyes, waiting for what I would do next.

I sucked in a breath. Here goes.

I repeated the prayer of the women when they too tended the fireplace. I placed my faith in their words and their custom. I remember how they looked lovingly at the flames and how their own faces were caressed by its warm tones. I placed a hand on my chest and wished and hoped and prayed. I looked out the window and, though I cannot see them, channeled my prayer to the stars.

“Please protect this house. Let no harm come upon the good people here.” My mind instantly conjured the face of a farm boy with his thick curls. Then the woman of the house, then the little darling girl.

I jumped back when the flame rose. For a moment, I thought that perhaps I arranged the pile wrong. But there it was, steadily being consumed. Hm. The roar of the flame sounded… it was like a gasp mixed with a sigh. I also could have sworn that when I shielded my eyes from the sudden harsh glow, another eye winked at me in the fire. And then, there it was; a soft whisper. A faint stirring of ash. A hushed crackle of ember.

I thought I felt something reach for me to stay near it.

But then Wilbur stepped outside and I hurried after him before he had any ideas of locking me in. I closed the door behind me, the curious charm swinging gently on its nail.

_____

Night engulfed us.

Night stole all the noise of the farm.

Not a bleat from the sheep, no snorting from the pig pen. No thumping of hooves on the ground. I suddenly missed hearing the bell tied around a certain enthusiastic sheep, but my eyes can’t seem to see beyond the blackness.

Wilbur may have noticed the eerie silence, but his eyes were searching the ground, looking for boot marks or footprints. He muttered softly, “after all that, you’d think Woodrow would be here to see the end. Just as I was beginning to like him, too.” I was already going to defend Woodrow, but Wilbur already shook his head. “No, that isn’t fair. Maybe he’s searching for the babe in his memories. But to run away without so much as a plan… he’d be a danger to anyone with warm blood in their veins.”

The steps we were making on the grass made no noise. I kicked over some pebbles. Nothing. I tugged Wilbur’s cowl. My head moved around. There were no mountains in the distance, no barn, no windmill. There wasn’t even a glowing tree covered in fireflies. I can’t see Xilthea in the sky.

There wasn’t even a moon. All that I felt was the cold, engulfing blackness.

“Wilbur,” I called softly.

He did not seem to hear me, his attention fully directed towards something on the ground. I forgot he did not feel the eerie frost that sinks into one’s soul, the telltale chill that warned of Blake’s proximity. Wilbur was a sitting duck; quite literally too, since he was now squatting out in the open, holding a thin strip of fabric on the grass. “He removed his monk attire?”

I pulled Wilbur’s arm, raising him up from the ground. “Wilbur, there are no stars.”

A voice like a bored schoolmaster finally broke the silence; gravelly and impatient. “Indeed. Quite an astute observation.”

Knox.

Wilbur shot up, almost crashing into me. He looked wildly at his surroundings, only now noticing that we were trapped. Knox must have timed his grand illusion just as I was stepping out of the cottage. Wilbur plunged his hand into his bag, but Knox attacked. “No, you don’t.”

Wilbur swore. I saw his bag and bottles morph into an ever-shifting shapeless mass, like liquid without its container. Even to this day, I am still amazed at what our abilities can do. Wilbur could still reach inside and feel the actual bottles in spite of the illusion, but he may simply be throwing flower bottles in the air. Or worse, the miasma he wanted to inspect. We needed to conserve his powers, along with the remaining items he had for the real battle.

“Now, now. There’s no need for that.” Knox’s miserable voice again. I gritted my teeth.

I hated hearing him sound so mellow, so confident. Our heads whipped around, but there was no spotting him from the encroaching void. I did not know what to do but grab mud and stone and grass before they too were swallowed by the illusion. “I must say, though. I did not expect your little stunt back there. I admit, I am impressed.”

“He can do more than that,” I shouted, baiting him.

Silence. No, I wanted to keep him talking. I wanted to locate where he was leering at us. Then, a voice that sounded irritated. “You dare–”

I did not expect to hit something when I threw the ball of mud until the noise of the farmland returned, along with its landmarks. The illusion swirled away; bringing the farm, the forest, the mountains, and Knox in sight. It was like being released from a glass bottle. Knox was sputtering, removing the mud from his eyes. Good. I hit him square in the face.

He was but a few feet away from where we stood. I did not take any chances. I threw more mud at Knox. I pelted him. Anything that my hands grabbed from the earth, I flung towards him. Wilbur was still busy with his bag, but his other arm was throwing wildly at Knox, too.

And then we heard a howl. A howl so horrible that it shook us to the core, the ground beneath us trembling. We fell to the ground, landing on our hands and knees. My teeth rattled. It was unnatural, like all the beasts of the forests combined; the warning, trumpeting, thunderous call of lion, cheetah, and elephant. I looked at the cottage–surely, the family must have woken to that, but the cottage slumbered peacefully. Everything seemed normal.

Except for the light of the fireplace glowing a strange green-orange color.