2

THE ESTATE

J. PAULETTE FORSHEY

ISBN 9781615086726

All rights reserved

Copyright 2013 J. Paulette Forshey

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

For information:

http://SizzlerEditions.com/

Sizzler Editions/Intoxication Romance

A Renaissance E Books publication

3

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

4

CHAPTER I

Cuilean Keeley stuffed his hands in his jean-jacket pockets and rocked his six-foot-six frame

back on his heels, half listening to the auctioneer's singsong call for bids. A quick check of the
brochure in his hand reminded him the items he'd come for wouldn't be on the block until later in
the day. Shifting his backpack from the ground to his shoulder, he decided to gently mingle
among the other buyers, looky-loos, and the serious local gossips.

He’d traveled far to attend this auction, selling all of his possessions, save for the clothes on

his back, just to be able to make the trip. He walked up the weathered, graying flagstone path of
the Bramguard estate, noticing the aged patina on the copper urns lining the way. Cuilean
paused, observing the shutters closed, half-closed, or hanging askew, reminding him of the
flirting winks of dirty old men. Now, after all these years, the house with its lumbering,
behemoth shape rose fat like a well-fed slug to sit beneath a labyrinth of vegetation.

Except for a slight yellowing with age, the facade was still complete. Curious. Without

proper care for several years, the paint should have peeled and flaked along the house's sides and
around its exotic carved trimmings. The grounds, though weed-choked, were well kept for the
most part, despite the fact that the hedge could have used a more defined clipping. But then it
wouldn't have hidden the rust-coated iron fence so well. Funny thing about that aged,
pockmarked, corroded fence with its fixed-open gate and sections held up only by that hedge. It
still managed to do its job and do it well. Indeed, the whole house, with all the despair hanging
over it, was intact. The bits and pieces of conversation he overheard repeatedly commented how
not one vandal had ever dared harm the house or its contents.

Slipping his pack from his shoulder, he hunched down to rummage through the bag’s

contents. A flash of auburn underneath a large- brimmed hat caught his attention. He glanced
up to see a woman wearing a faded floral dress weaving among the crowd. He stood and tried to
spot her again, but saw her nowhere. Cuilean shrugged, returning to the business at hand.

He deliberately chose a spot near a small group of women in their seventies. They were the

type his grandmother would say didn't repeat gossip, so you'd better listen well the first time.
These Southern ladies were the haute couture of this peculiar little parish, a bit of sophistication
in this forgotten-in-time place. As their mothers before them, they wore gloves of white crochet,
dresses, and skirts with lace-trimmed blouses, not shirts. Ladies, his mother once informed him,
didn't wear anything as common as a shirt; that was what a man wore. These Southern belles'
morning elegance was topped off with wide-brimmed hats, accessorized by purses and shoes that
matched. They were, in this outskirt town of Savannah, the personification of genteel
civilization.

Cuilean listened as the gossips twittered. They claimed that once the long, wide, graceful

wrap-around porch sported delicate white wicker furniture. Sadly, only piles of bits and pieces
were in evidence today. The gossips commented on how one could imagine fine ladies in pale
gowns seated on that white wicker, sipping lemonade, while young gents sporting straw hats
strutted among them in their Sunday best. It could be imagined– but then, no one could
remember such an event ever occurring on that particular porch.

Alas, only crumbling remains, memories of the past, lay resting on floorboards that protested

loudly as the inquisitive bidders trod upon them, allowing a musty, earthy smell to seep through
the boards. When he'd made a closer inspection of the home, Cuilean noted the odor of a wet,
wind- swept, dark, cold, forgotten graveyard hung like Spanish moss on the railings and
doorways.

5

It was already warm this morning; soon it would turn to sweltering. The humid, moist air

choked the yard with heavy scents of honeysuckle, jasmine, and roses. Idly the quintet fanned
themselves with hand-stitched handkerchiefs or colorful ornate fans. His peripheral vision
caught, but didn't acknowledge, the quick glances they gave him. He wanted to listen without
their knowing he could hear them plain as day.

6

CHAPTER II

"Oh, my, isn't he a little biscuit?"
Cuilean bit the inside of his check to keep from laughing.
One of the well-coiffed white-hairs snickered. "My dear, I bet there's nothing 'little' about

him."

What was that old saying, he mused, something about snow on the mountain top but fire

underneath. He glanced over and back quickly to make sure. Yep, they were seventy-something
and not seventeen.

"Yes, he's certainly a tall one. Must be six foot two or three."
"Honey, I wasn't referring to his height, and he's at least six four, if not taller."
It took the Southern belle a minute to comprehend. "What? Oh! Mildred, get your mind out

of the gutter."

"She'd have to step up to have her mind in the gutter," another one added with a scoff.
Snickering giggles smothered behind fine linen handkerchiefs reached his ears.
"That olive skin, and that thatch of black hair ... hmm."
"The boy needs a haircut and a bath," snapped one.
"I wouldn't mind giving him both. I'd just love to scrub his back ... and his front."
"Did you see those green eyes? Like fresh spring grass they are. I'd kill for those thick black

lashes he has. Well, if I had those I'd never have to buy mascara again."

"I read in a book once about Celtic heritage. They called men with his coloring Black Celts.

Doesn't that sound so romantic?"

"Bessie May, what kind of book was that?"
Cuilean noted from the minute-long hesitation that Bessie May wasn’t in any hurry to answer.

That and the way she crossed her arms over her more than ample bosom and pursed her lips
tight. His grandmother, red-haired and pale- skinned, had called him a Black Celt when he was
young. She told him he was a throwback to the marauders who pillaged and plundered the land
before finally claiming it as theirs.

"Bessie May, we're waiting."
Hand clutching her handkerchief to the base of her throat, Bessie May stood for a moment

more before blurting, "It was one of those romance books. So there."

Her friends closed their eyes and shook their heads for a moment as though in prayer. "You

really need to get out more," suggested one lady.

"I wonder why he's here."
"Doesn't look like he could afford to buy even the smallest, most worthless item on the

auction block."

Cuilean bit back another grin, staring straight ahead. No, he supposed he didn't look like

much, wearing a much-worn jean jacket, a faded blue work shirt, tattered jeans, and thin-soled
tennis shoes. Right now he probably looked like something the proverbial cat dragged in,
especially after traveling in these same clothes for several days. He listened, decided which one
would hold the most information, turned, and locked his gaze with hers.

"Good morning, ma'am, and ladies." He gave them a courtesy nod. "I'm Cuilean Keeley."
They twittered good mornings and hellos to him like he knew their good Southern manners

dictated.

"You're a Yankee," spat one purse lipped belle.
"Mildred!" scolded Bessie May.

7

"Yes, I am, ma'am, bred, born, and raised. I hope you won't hold that against me." Even

though the War Between the States – or as they called it here, the War of Northern Aggression –
had been over for nearly two centuries, some Southerners still disliked Northerners.

"Why, of course not. We are modern thinking people here in Fayetteville County, and this is

after all the twenty-first century." She introduced herself as Sue Marie Beaufort of the Atlanta
Beauforts and minded him not to confuse her with the Augusta Beauforts. She introduced her
four friends: Bessie May Foucault, who'd had the forethought and determination to marry
Chadwick Carter Foucault III, thus changing her last name from the dreadful Homemuck she'd
been born with to the more respectable Foucault. Then there was Ida Lea Culpepper, Sue Ellen
Pristride, and Mildred Louisa LeGaillard. Cuilean bit back a laugh; with names like those they
couldn't be any more Southern if they tried.

He gave a slight bow. "My pleasure, ladies."
"What brings you to our small town, Mr. Keeley?" Sue Ellen fluttered her fan. "Well, besides

this auction of course."

"It's Cuilean, ma'am; I'm an archeologist and–"
"Like that handsome Mr. Jones fellow?" Ida Lea purred.
"Ida Lea, that's a movie character, not a real person," Sue Marie admonished.
"Well, I know that. I was using the movie as a reference, that's all," Ida Lea snapped.
"I'm afraid my life and work isn't as exciting as the movie, but yes, like him."
"Don't archeologists dig for dinosaur bones? I don't believe there are any of those around

here, dinosaurs that is, and I don't believe there are any archeologists either," Ida Lea added with
what he could only call a befuddled look on her face, before she giggled like an adolescent
schoolgirl.

Cuilean cleared his throat. "Archaeology is a diverse range of different disciplines, and I'm a

student of human society. My work is the recovery of artifacts, architecture, bio-facts and such."
He fought the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When he mentioned what he did, most
people's eyes glazed over, and these fine ladies were no different. He dumbed-down the
explanation for their benefit. "Like this old house, the effects left inside, the person or persons
who resided here are what I study. I've no doubt there's a story behind such a grand old place as
this." He hoped this simple prompt would generate the desired effect.

"Well, this old house and its last residents sure do have a story behind them." Sue Marie gave

her hair a little fluff with her hand.

"Do tell, ladies." He squelched a grin. Yep, prime the right pump and the well will gush.
Sue Marie gave her hair another little fluff for effect. "Well, most of the story begins when I

was just a girl, before the age of womanhood. Momma always said the Bramguards were
eccentric people, but their only son, Thaddeus P. Bramguard, was just downright odd."

"How so?" Cuilean thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. When he had begun his search ten

years back, the Bramguard story was already fifty years old. He'd been researching material for
his masters' degree in archeology when he stumbled across mention of the mysterious lost tomes.

Supposedly there still existed manuscripts of mystical books of magical powers, containing

the secrets of a race of people older than the inhabitants of the fabled lost city of Atlantis.
Cuilean had seen vague notations referring to them scrawled in the margins of an old, forgotten
text. This gave him tangible hope for their existence. From that tiny morsel of information,
gleaned so many years before, he’d scoured university and historical archives, old letters and
shipping manifestos for any further hint of their whereabouts. His peers scoffed at his quixotic
search for books thought to exist only as a child's bedtime cautionary tale.

8

CHAPTER III

Quite by accident, wedged between a ledger's pages, he'd discovered a faded newspaper

clipping concerning an unidentified missing girl and her unbalanced employer, a Mr. Thaddeus
P. Bramguard, an eccentric bibliomaniac. Cuilean had located a delinquent tax notice that led
him to an obituary, and finally to the announcement of an estate auction being held this very
weekend. Today, standing here, he marveled that the property, its contents, and last-known two
occupants were still the driving force of hushed whispers, even after all these years.

"He talked to himself," exclaimed Bessie May.
"And that's odd? I've been known to do the same thing." Listening to the woman, hearing this

description of old Bramguard, he snorted in knowing self-recognition. A scholar himself, he
admitted to burrowing into the studies of ancient, lost, and forgotten peoples, becoming heedless
at times to those around him.

"No, of course not; what Bessie May is leaving out is that Mr. Thaddeus P. Bramguard not

only talked to himself, it was like he was holding a conversation with people who just weren't
there. If you understand my meaning?"

The quintet all fanned themselves and nodded in agreement at the same time. Cuilean had the

weird sensation of being at a bobble-head display.

"People said it was because he was so smart; he had not one but two college degrees from a

couple of Northern universities. Finished both in half the time it takes normal people."

"I heard once his IQ was over three hundred.
People with one that high are most times crazy." Ida Lea nodded her head to emphasize her

point. The group joined in giving the bobble-head nod.

"So he was a genius." Cuilean chuckled to himself. IQ levels topped at two hundred, but he

didn't see the need to correct and embarrass Ida Lea.

"A crazy one."
"Perhaps a bit eccentric, too."
"He stayed civil until his parents died. Did you know he didn't even have a proper viewing of

them? No, he didn't; the day after they passed, he had them buried in the old Northwood
Cemetery. Before that no one had been interred there for over fifty years."

"No one's been buried there since, either," quipped Mildred Louisa.
"Then he started adding to that collection of books of his."
"What books are those?" Cuilean nearly salivated at the mere mention of the volumes. This

was why he was here, to prove their existence and make them his, the tomes his professor and
other learned scholars claimed were nothing but myth.

A movement from inside one of the estate’s windows caught his eye, a slight parting of some

tattered drapes, a flash of red and cream.

"Mr. Keeley?"
"I'm sorry, ladies, the heat and all." He gave a glance back at the window, dark with shadows,

sullen in the sunshine.

"It'll take your Northern blood a while to warm up and adjust itself." "My Uncle Craig–"
"Mildred, no one wants to hear about your crazy Uncle Craig," Sue Marie Beaufort of the

Atlanta Beauforts scolded.

"Mr. Bramguard?" Cuilean prompted, steering the conversation back to the original topic.
"Oh, yes, well, he was fine and dandy until the day he hired that woman."

9

"Stayed mostly to himself, came to town occasionally, but that last time anyone laid eyes on

him, before the tragedy, well..." Bessie May glanced nervously around. "Mr. Bramguard was a
meticulous man, and on that day he was, well, rumpled."

Sue Ellen chimed in. "Momma claimed his beautiful light-maple brown hair, usually clean

and combed just-so to one side, stood straight up in several places. She said he'd not seen either
soap or brush for several days, either." She leaned in to whisper. "His usually fresh-pressed suit
of rich English tweed, a suit that many a lady around town described as making him look dashing
– in a scholarly way, of course – looked as though he’d worn it sleeping and awake. Why, even
his necktie, once neatly knotted at his throat, was now non- existent, and his clean-shaven face
fostered formless stubble. Like a vagrant," she whispered.

"My mother-in-law, the Mrs. Foucault, said even his eyeglasses roosted at a precarious angle

on his face. She said all the townspeople were alarmed by his appearance."

"Then he put that sign on the town bulletin board," added Ida Lea.
There was a long pause by the quintet, long enough that Cuilean prompted, "What was written

on the notice?"

Sue Marie drew herself up to her full five- foot-two and proclaimed, "It read: Wanted:

Intelligent, educated person to do research and cataloging of rare books. Man preferred, but a
quiet woman will be considered. Reply PO Box 1313."

10

CHAPTER IV

"Sounds like Mr. Thaddeus P. Bramguard was a bit of a chauvinist."
"My poppa said he always thought Thaddeus was a bit light in the loafers, too," retorted Sue

Ellen.

Cuilean, who'd sucked in a bit of his lower lip, capturing it between his teeth, an old habit of

his, nearly bit clear through his flesh when Sue Ellen made that announcement.

"Did he receive a response to his notice?" "Oh yes, the young lady that answered his ad was

very beautiful." Mildred Louisa had decided to join the conversation. "And determined."

"Determined?"
Mildred Louisa continued, "As the story goes, most of those that saw her remembered her

steadily walking as though on an already fixed path to Mr. Bramguard’s front door. She carried
a faded old carpetbag. Her dress, the ladies of the day claimed, had once been brightly colored
but was a pale ghost of itself that day. They say it clung to her womanly figure as her stockinged
legs swished rhythmically with each unwavering stride."

"Surely someone recognized her, or could describe what she looked like?" inquired Cuilean.

"Oh no, her face was never seen, not one

townsperson remembers seeing it, for she wore a large-brimmed hat over long corkscrew

auburn tresses," proclaimed Sue Ellen.

Not wanting to be left out, Mildred Louisa added, "Where this beautiful, mysterious, and very

young female assistant came from, or how she got here, no one could say."

Cuilean's skin goose bumped, the hair on his nape rose, and his stomach clenched at the

woman's description. "No one remembers seeing her on a train or bus or even walking here?"

"No," the five said in unison.
"The first time anyone remembers, she just appeared, walking down the middle of the street

one day. Bold as they come, straight to Mr. Bramguard's door."

"And later, no one ever reported her missing or came looking for her?" he asked.
The Southern five all gave a bobbled-headed no.
Cuilean leaned in. "So what happened next?"
Sue Marie glanced around and motioned for the others to gather in closer. "A few

townspeople stood on their porches watching her pass by. Some were bold enough to trail
discretely behind before stopping at the gate. None believed she'd actually have the gumption to
climb the steps, let alone knock on the door." She clasped her hand to her heart. "But she did.
She placed the carpetbag down by her feet, and using the brass pistol-knocker, struck the door
twice. The sound echoed in the still, late-day air."

The five pairs of gloved hands fluttered like anxious butterflies to mouths, throats, and

breasts, murmuring sounds of distress.

Sue Marie straightened her spine, took a deep breath, and pressed her lips together,

composing herself. "Mr. Bramguard opened the door so that only half of his face could be seen.
No one remembers hearing what passed between them. He could be seen shaking his head once
in a negative way. She placed both hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side.
Whatever she said persuaded him to let her into his domain. Hesitantly, he opened the door
wider. The mysterious woman then picked up her bag and strode in. He shut the door carefully
behind her. That was the last they saw of her, until that day."

"What day was that?"
"Why, the day Mr. Bramguard came running from the house."

11

"The day they found the body, right?"
"None was ever recovered." They shook their heads in that bobble-head motion in the

negative.

"As to why Thaddeus supposedly did what he did, kill her and dispose of her body, was left

up for speculation."

"Some said he did it in a fit of jealous rage, whether over a mysterious lover or professional

rivalry, the distinction was never made quite clear."

Cuilean raised a brow. "But if they never found a body, how did they know he killed her?"
Ida jumped in. "The woman was missing; he kept ranting right up to when the attendants

from Heavenly Angels State Sanatorium came with those white jackets..."

"Straitjackets, Ida."
"Thank you, Mildred, to take Mr. Thaddeus P. Bramguard away."
"If no one saw her, how did anyone know she didn't leave on her own? Other than her

missing, was there any sign of foul play?"

"No, no blood or anything."
"Or body parts," whispered Mildred Louisa.
Cuilean raised a brow and rocked back on his heels. "Then how could they prove a crime had

been committed?"

"Mr. Bramguard's ravings that they had taken her, and never saying who they were. Some

said he claimed later that they were his books, and that's what condemned him to a sterile white
padded room."

"Because Thaddeus came running out of his front door, that one right there," said Mildred

Louisa, pointing with her white-gloved hand at the wood and glass object. "He ran down the
street screaming 'They took her! I tried to warn her about the library; now it's too late.'"

"He claimed the books took her?" Cuilean whipped his head around as the leaded beveled

glass of the front door rippled with color. It was as though someone inside wearing a
multicolored dress had walked past the entrance. A woman? Distracted, trying to catch another
sign of movement in the house, he vaguely heard Ida say, "The books; he kept saying the books
took her. And that's not all. The day he went mad was one of those Fridays."

The women all shook their heads in agreement.
"What Fridays?”
"It was a Friday the thirteenth."
"Oh, and what does that have to do with the story?"
"Well, every Friday the thirteenth after that, strange noises and lights have been seen about

the place."

Cuilean laughed. "Friday the thirteenth, you say? Really, ladies, no disrespect, but really, tell

me you don't believe in that old superstition?"

"Mr. Keeley, ever since Mr. Bramguard was taken away from his family home, unusual

occurrences have plagued the house on Friday the thirteenth. It is not a superstition; it is a fact."

"Okay. Anyone ever check the place out to see what was going on?"
"A couple of young men, teenagers trying to be brave, and one of the sheriff's deputies over

the years have, but Sheriff DuPonte put a stop to it after the last time."

"Why? What happened?"
"Well, the boys and the deputy all came out with pure white hair and they were never right in

the head again. But the last man, a realtor, a Yankee who claimed he didn't believe in such
things as ghosts, well, he not only had white hair but spoke in tongues." The women fluttered

12

their handkerchiefs. "His Northern kin came and took him away to a fancy Eastern sanatorium,
we heard."

Cuilean searched the windows, trying to catch another view of – of what, he didn't know.

Suddenly he snapped his attention back to the women. "The events with Mr. Bramguard all
happened sixty years ago; why are they just now auctioning off the house and belongings?"

"Because Mr. Bramguard only passed away five years back at the age of ninety-two; he was

thirty-two when all the trouble came about."

"The courts had a terrible time sorting out what to do with the house and its belongings. No

one wanted to enter this house. They say until the very end, Thaddeus kept repeating with his
very last breath in a sing-song voice, 'I warned her about the library; now it's too late.'"

13

CHAPTER V

The day wore on and the ladies made a polite retreat to a small tent offering shade and

refreshments. Cuilean stood under the sun beating down on him, scanning the house and
grounds for any sight of the woman he was sure he’d glimpsed in the window. It was just
coincidence, or someone who knew the story and wanted to stir up the crowd, he told himself,
but no one else mentioned seeing her. Those he asked about her gave him uneasy glances and
drifted away.

By late afternoon, the buyers had thinned, and there was still no sign of the tomes he had

come about. Cuilean was starting to think the books weren't going to be offered, and then a
burly red-faced man slammed a wooden crate of books down beside the auctioneer. The two
began to argue in hushed tones, with the auctioneer placing his hand over the microphone to
keep their voices from carrying. Finally, the burly man shook his head, threw up his hands in
disgust, and stomped away.

The auctioneer took a deep breath and began his singsong call for bids. Cuilean had expected

a flurry of bidders to vie for the crate of books, but no one spoke up; indeed it was eerily quiet.
The bid started and ended at twenty-two thousand dollars, the exact amount in his pocket.
Keeley chuckled at the irony of it as he placed the wad of bills in the auctioneer's hand.

Not only had he purchased the wooden box of tomes but also a faded old carpetbag. He

carried his prizes to the back of the property, away from prying eyes. Glancing around to see if
he'd been followed, and finding himself alone, he hunkered down between the old shed and a
sheltering ancient oak.

He pulled out a book and caressed the leathery spine as if it were a new lover. A curious

tingling coursed through his fingertips. It reminded him of what it felt like to grab a live
electrical wire. He laid down that book and pulled out the carpetbag, running his hand over the
tapestry surface. No doubt the faded red was once a vibrant crimson, with gleaming gold and
mossy green threads. Now they were tattered, subdued wisps of themselves, decorating the
surface. He opened the bag wide; his nose twitched from the soft, sweet, floral aroma lingering
there.

It was her scent, the one that invaded and perfumed his nightly dreams. Her fragrance that

fueled his sweat- soaked, sheet-tangled dreams. He let a lazy grin spread across his face and
raised one eyebrow in surprise and delight at finding the scent. With reverence he placed the
four books in the satchel and tucked himself from view to await the coming of nightfall.

Cuilean drew his long legs up to cradle the carpetbag against his chest; the coarse material of

the handles was a comforting weight in his hand. He dozed in the late day heat, half listening to
the buzz of the final bidders and the curious. The broad leaves and heady scent of the flowers
hiding him scattered his light sleep with dreams of a soft, supple woman with milky white skin.
The quiet and chill of evening air woke him. He stretched the kinks out of his limbs, picked up
the satchel, and shouldered the backpack. Then he strolled to the rear of the house.

Not wanting to be seen at one of the doors, he went to a basement window. It gave easily

under the pressure of his foot. Cuilean wiggled and cursed his lanky six-foot-plus frame through
the opening to drop soundlessly to the earthen floor. He'd never been in the house, never seen
blueprints of its interior, but he knew without doubt its floor plan. Reaching through the window
he retrieved his backpack and the carpetbag, hugging it close to him. He flicked on a small
flashlight to get his bearings.

14

“Well, old boy," he muttered to himself, “let's see if these stairs are sturdy enough to hold

you.” Step by step, he made his way slowly to the top, testing each board with his weight before
traversing upward. At the summit, he gave a hearty push to the door. It gave in a rush like tissue
paper, sending him sprawling across the kitchen floor. Cuilean lay there, momentarily stunned.
The wind knocked out of him, his palms stung from the cuts inflicted by the splintered wood.
Rising first on hands and knees, he then stood and wiped his palms on his jeans. He picked up
his bags and the flashlight he’d dropped. Then he made his way to the library, its double doors
hanging ajar, beckoning him.

He boldly strode to the middle of the room.
A full moon shone through the bare windows, illuminating the space. The floor-to-ceiling

bookshelves that lined the walls, once filled to their capacity, now gaped open like so many
empty, hungry maws. Cuilean sat down cross- legged, took one book out, and began to read.

15

CHAPTER VI

Those buried between once creamy sheets, now yellowed and edges brown-tinged, stirred

from their slumber. Would this "he" be the one, they collectively asked? Caution made them
keep their distance; the "she" they kept safe in their midst deserved only the best. The last time
they'd emerged, disaster had followed. They'd have to move with urgency – their time to survive
in the corporeal world was coming to an end.

Like wisps of mist, they poured from the books, unseen, to circle Cuilean and fill the room.
Has he the mind we seek?
It is strong, but is it strong enough?
He has youth on his side; youth is strong. Is his mind stable?
If his mind is not constant, she'll retreat further into our knowledge and refuse him.
Yes, after the last disaster we must be vigilant.
Bramguard found us first after millennia of slumber. He didn't realize what we were, or what

we could do.

He read and reread us. He didn't fully make the connections as to what was happening around

him, not even after he whispered our words aloud. The evening he muttered the growing words,
touched the lovely, bold iris, we hoped he would see in the morrow's morning light that which
we could achieve. Alas, he did not.

No, not even when we helped bring the cool, sweet breeze inside his cloistered home, he

didn't see or understand. Mr. Bramguard in his cobwebbed mind only wanted to research and
catalog us.

It was when she came knocking at his door that hope sprang in us. She arrived, ripe within

her the life we so needed. We nudged him to let her in and to look at her, to see her through our
eyes. Finally he relented, allowing her access to his domain, but unfortunately Bramguard was
as blind as the townspeople to her worth.

She did as he asked; cataloging us and such, but she also noticed what happened when he

spoke our language. She asked him to teach her our patois, to understand our purpose.

Bramguard, like so many before him, sadly chose not to see us as we truly are, but instead

through man's narrow tunneled vision.

One wisp crossed what could have been ethereal arms across its chest and snorted. By the

time he began to lightly comprehend and recognize our power, it was too late. He called us
demons and tried to destroy us.

Yes, grumbled another curl of smoke. When his attempt failed, he tried to lock us away, but

by then she had come to us.

Murmurs of approval drifted through the crowd. Once she felt our seductive caress, she

wanted more and we wanted her.

We must test him – make sure he is the one.
One by one the filmy apparitions dissipated into the night air, leaving the exhausted Cuilean

to fall asleep with his dreams.

16

CHAPTER VII

He sat crossed-legged on the floor as night turned into day and day into night, several times

over. His hair, once shiny, black, and neatly trimmed, turned dull, unruly, and long. His eyes
became flat and red-rimmed. He'd not eaten or drank as normal men during this time.
Unbeknownst to him, the books nourished his earthbound form, and as he learned their words,
their secrets unfolded bit by bit to him.

Cuilean jerked his head up, startled. Heart pounding, sweat sheening over and tickling his

skin, mouth open, he gasped for air. He listened to the crickets outside, and then focused on the
sounds of the house settling. Swallowing the unnamed fear, he concentrated on making his body
relax again, finally sagging into a comfortable heaviness. He slowed his rapid breathing and his
pulse soon followed. His mind became light of thought, and he drifted into a calm peacefulness.
Even the air around him stilled.

A mouse skittered cautiously, hugging the trim along the far wall. Cuilean listened and

dismissed the interruption, striving to float on the tide of the cosmos. Time crawled to a
standstill. Cuilean fought the panic that once more jolted him as the air around him stirred,
causing the hair on the nape of his neck to bristle. His body drew tight, on high alert. Reeling,
he jerked to his feet, eyes wide, his stance that of a warrior ready for battle, but found nothing.

He whirled, slamming his fist into the aged plaster, sinking to the wrist in the thin veneer,

relieved by the expenditure of pent-up energy. Flesh torn from bone sprayed blood, and a primal
scream tore from his lips as he yanked his hand back out of the hole. Cuilean flung the book in
his other hand; it smacked against the nearest wall with a thud to bounce on the floor.

"I have read and read and tried to understand; what more do you want?" he screamed into the

air.

The discarded tome's pages fluttered like a wounded bird's wings. Cuilean cocked his head as

the book gave a hop, landing closer to him.

Lips pursed, three strides later, he held the volume and began to read aloud. "Pulvis licentia

quod a fulsi videor." The dust that covered everything receded, and gleaming wood shined
bright.

"Fenestra exsisto tarsus." Cuilean chuckled as the windows sparkled clean and clear.
He picked up another book, read the words long dead, resurrecting them, breathing new life

into the ancient. Like a great creeping thing, their magic seeped through him, rolling from him
in enormous waves. Inside and out, sagging wood straightened as if new, shutters righted
themselves, and encroaching vegetation retreated. Cuilean stood, arms outstretched, head back,
as pure joy filled him. As a full moon shone through the leaded glass, illuminating the rooms,
elegant wood gleamed on the floor, the trim, and the graceful stairway.

One by one translucent phantoms popped up around him until he found himself surrounded by

hundreds of see-through forms.

"Who are you? What do you want?" cried Cuilean.
You see us?
“Of course I see you; why else would I be talking to you?” He listened to whistles and clicks

as the beings spoke among themselves. Their voices rose and rose until they became a chaos of
terrible noise. Cuilean covered his ears with his hands and bent double, his brow creased in pain.
The one closest to him raised a hand for silence.

You must speak in his language and its speed. He can’t handle the amount of information that

quickly.

17

“Who are you? What are you?”
We are what is left of a civilization that existed long before any others. We are the thoughts,

emotions, the very lives of those people.

“Are you from Atlantis?”
It laughed. Atlantis came millennia after us. They appeared to communicate with each other,

then turned back to him. Our land is buried under tons of ice. I believe you call it Antarctica.

“You were the first mages, alchemists, and wizards – for lack of better names."
Yes. When we revealed ourselves later, to modern races, the people you call Chinese and

Egyptians, they named us so; they understood us best, but alas, they didn't understand us
completely.

Yes, we used what you call magic as easily as you breathe, but like all peoples, we quarreled,

and nearly decimated our race. To save ourselves, we put all that we are into these pages of
vellum and waited to find two who could aid us in living again.

“You want your knowledge brought to the academic world?” Cuilean rubbed his palms, damp

with anticipation, on his jeans. “I can do this. Let me bring your cause to the world. I can–”
She must approve.

“She?”
The Yin must consent to the Yang.
“What are you talking about? Wait, she, is that the woman who worked for Bramguard? The

missing woman? You know where she is?”

Listen. Do you hear her song?
Faint at first, singing drifted to him. Head tilted, he listened: a woman sang softly and

mournfully. In a flash he pinpointed where the sound originated from.

Up.
He hurried to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Moonlight danced through the hallway

windows, drawing him deeper into the house, to the door at the end of the hall. A door with a
light creeping from beneath. Cuilean knew she waited inside for him. His hand closed around
the tarnished brass knob and found it locked. He twisted the handle to and fro, yet it held fast.

Cuilean raged against the locked door. "You drew me here." With a heavy grunt he slammed

his shoulder into the door. The wood creaked, shuddered, and stood whole. "Why? I've done all
you have asked. Let me in, damn it!" Time after time he pounded on the wood, until his body
was weary and bloody.

He collapsed against the door. Rain softly tapped against the windowpane above his head.

Shifting, he watched it drizzle down the glazing, blocking out that world. Cuilean's head dipped.
Eyes dry and fatigued drifted closed. His chin touched his chest. And he slept.

18

CHAPTER VIII

Stunned, the collective rippled with shock. Deep between their covers they'd rejoiced. After

a millennium and a century by half, they were positive they had found an equal worthy of their
most prized possession. Unlike Thaddeus P. Bramguard, every test, every task they asked of this
new man, he passed. Yet she kept her distance. They were perplexed. They coaxed, they
pleaded. He was the Yang to her Yin, they whispered.

Fear ran through the collective. Their last Friday the thirteenth was drawing near. If she

didn't accept this one, well ... a sigh shivered all. None wanted to contemplate what would be
their final demise.

Finally, in desperation, when they were about to abandon all hope, one voice slipped silently

up to ask, Why?

“Love!” she cried. “Love! All does not matter save for genuine love. Does his heart love?

Would it, could it, love me?” she entreated in anguish.

Love? They had welcomed her into their world, found her worthy of their knowledge, and

she lamented for an emotion? They retreated into themselves, searching their collective minds,
posing the questions to all. Day turned into night three times over as they pondered. All were to
agree. Yes, she was correct; without love, knowledge was only a teardrop in a vast ocean.

Go to him, offer your heart to him; if there is love, you will know it.
"What if he rejects me?" she cried.
You'll not know if you don't trust; without trust there can't be love. Open yourself to him,

show him your true self, then you will know.

"If there isn't love, what will happen to you, to me?"
Then our time is finished, and we will release you to the world to which you were born.
"Will I die?"
In the natural time of these things, yes.
"I will do this for you."
No, not for us, for yourself.
She bowed her head, deep in thought, then straightened, and with a poof disappeared from the

collective.

* * * *

Cuilean dreamed she came to him. She stood one tall man's length from him, and yet she

hesitated. The air in the room shimmered like heat rising from desert sand. Cuilean blinked,
trying to clear his vision, and then stared.

A face of sharp angles and cat-slanted eyes of sapphire blue peeked out from beneath flame-

red hair. The riotous locks spilled over pale shoulders of creamy skin, to lush full breasts that
rose with the ripeness of womanhood; down to a stomach flat and inviting, to round hips that
trailed into legs stretching on for miles under a faded dress.

She reached her arms out to him and stopped. He frowned, then seeing her tremble, he

understood. Smiling, he opened his arms wide and called to her, with the song his soul sang only
for her. She ran to him, and he crushed her to him. He brushed the curls from her face, saw the
beauty that lay hidden there, and pressed his mouth to hers.

19

CHAPTER VIIII

Two months had passed since the auction of Thaddeus P. Bramguard's estate and the

disappearance of the Yankee, Cuilean Keeley. July sizzled like bacon on a hot griddle. The
townspeople, led by the Southern quintet, gathered in awe of the once fading house, now,
overnight, back to its grand glory.

The fence surrounding the grounds had righted and the wrought iron, ebony once more,

gleamed in the noonday sun. Weeds retreated to leave a neat, trimmed yard. Exotic flowers of
foreign lands bloomed lush in their alien setting.

"Do you see that?" whispered Sue Marie Beaufort, pointing to the house facade looking as

though freshly painted.

"Will you look at the shutters! Why, nary a one is crooked or missing a slat," exclaimed Sue

Ellen Pristride, fluttering her handkerchief at her throat

Ida Lea Culpepper chimed in, "The windows shine and sparkle just like my momma used to

describe them to me."

"It's all that Yankee's fault; he came here asking questions and stirring things up that were

better left alone," raged Mildred Louisa LeGaillard. "Yankees; can't trust them. Remember it
was a Yankee that burned our beloved Atlanta."

Bessie May Foucault latched onto her husband's strong arm, pressing close to him. "I'm

afraid, Chadwick. It's just like the stories Momma and Daddy use to scare us with to make sure
we behaved." She leaned toward her husband whispering, "Why is this happening today of all
days? Everyone knows that Friday the thirteenth is bad luck." She gave a shrill squeak, startling
all around her as a cat, its fur inky as night, ran through the crowd.

"Not again," shouted Chadwick Carter Foucault III into the crowd, pumping a fist and arm

into the sky. "Our fathers and grandfathers stood by and let this happen once; we will not let it
happen again." Rage scarred his features, twisting them into a hideous mask of righteous fear.

A chant of "Not again, not again" rang through the air. Residents carrying shovels, rakes,

brooms, and a baseball bat or two surged forward. "Not again, not again," they ranted.

20

CHAPTER X

Cuilean roamed his mouth over her silken skin, using his hand to brush the dress from her

shoulders. It shimmied down her torso, pausing at her breasts. A soft exhale of her breath sent it
floating to the floor.

He held his breath from the sheer beauty of her standing before him. Alabaster skin,

sprinkled with a smattering of soft red freckles, covered her. She pressed her hand, warm and
small, against his chest. It startled him to find she touched bare skin. His clothes had vanished,
and he laughed at the rightness of it all.

He pressed his lips gently to hers, plump, sweet, supple, tasting of a wine more heady than

he'd ever experienced. From her mouth to her delicate jaw line, he nibbled and kissed. Down
her slender neck to the rosy peaks waiting, begging for his attention. She bowed, offering them
to him; his hands cradled her back. Cuilean bent his head, darting his tongue out to flick a nipple
into a hard point. He drew the peak first deeper into his mouth, then more of her breast before
moving on to the next succulent orb.

His hands caressed her back, then one tangled in her hair as the other squeezed and plumped

her ass. He ran his tongue up to trail along her throat. A moan soft and low escaped her lips
before he captured them with his. Cuilean kissed her like a man possessed with the need of her.
Swirling the taste of her anew in his mouth, he dove in a second time to sample her spicy
essence.

The scent of lavender perfumed the air as a bed of the herb appeared, soft, rich, dark purple,

behind them. Gently he lowered her down. His hand traveled up her ribcage and he lightly
fingered her breasts all the way around the dusty rose-colored points. He palmed and squeezed
each in turn. Down the vale between her breasts, he traced his tongue, dipping lower and lower.
He kissed her bellybutton, loving the small gasps of pleasure coming from her.

A spring of auburn curls waited for him, and reverently he kissed them. She bumped her

mound against his mouth.

She kneaded his sinewy arms with her hands, and then ran the palms over his forearms to his

shoulders and back. Drawing him up, their hips aligned, her sex inviting his, but he had other
ideas. Grabbing one of her ankles he trailed his tongue from there to along the back of her knee.
Her skin, sensitive to his touch, made her shudder and gasp with ecstasy.

Cuilean didn't need a second enticement and repeated the process with the other leg. She

squirmed, giggled, and took his breath away again. Passion and possession darkened his gaze as
he leaned forward, steadying himself above her on trembling arms. Slowly he dipped down and
captured her mouth as his penis sheathed itself into her. She ground her hips against his, locking
her long legs around his waist. He started with a measured, gradual rhythm: in, out, in, out, in,
out, until she rocked her hips faster to meet his thrust. Cuilean wanted this to last, but their
bodies had other plans.

He plunged one hand under her, to the small of her back, lifting her, securing her to him, as he

drove into her. Her arms fell from him, spreading out on either side of her; back bowed, she
cried out as her climax rolled over her. Only then did Cuilean sink into her three more times
before he found his own release.

Falling forward he gathered her to him, rolling them onto their sides facing each other. He

cradled her to him, whispering words of love and devotion as they drifted off to sleep.

* * * *

21

We, the knowledge, experiences, hopes, and dreams of the greatest civilization to ever live,

rejoiced at their joining. We watched as they slept, spent from their lovemaking. Unbeknownst
to them, a tiny spark ignited deep inside her womb. One by one, we remnants, now nothing
more than wisps of ethereal mist, slipped into her nose and mouth with each breath she took, to
merge with the forming ember of life.

* * * *

A pain-filled moan woke Cuilean. His instinct was to jump to his feet, but her hand on his

chest stilled him. His eyes grew wide at the sight of her, nearly bursting with child and in great
anguish.

22

CHAPTER XI

The grounds and the house began to tremble, shake, and swell. The wrought iron gate

slammed closed, startling the crowd, scattering them to the far side of the street.

Vines thick and fat, long and skinny stretched forward to tangle and choke the flagstone path

and yard. Slate crashed from the roof. Windows exploded, sending thousands of shards of
brilliance raining down onto the crowd, propelling them running from the area. Shutters
slammed shut or fell from their hinges. Outside the gate, the sidewalk undulated, reminiscent of
a belly-dancer's stomach, in quick and violent intervals. A moan, low, concentrated, and pain-
filled, permeated the air, as walls fissured and split ... and the house began to succumb.

Roof timbers groaned, cracked, and caved inward, their weight crashing the joists into the

next floor. Trembling, the house quivered, as if trying to decide what to do next, and a groan
low and tortured reverberated through the throng.

Those that were there later swore they heard a woman’s effort-filled cry of joy and a man’s

triumphant roar of pride emanate from the house’s interior, as they watched the house fold into
itself.

A wave of dust bloomed upward, then outward, to crash over spectators who were too stunned

to flee the wave. Coated in dust, red- rimmed eyes staring blankly at the world, the remaining
gawking townsfolk stumbled about like statues come to life. They stared transfixed at the
wreckage that moments ago was a house.

* * * *

We merged with the spark of life created by the scholar Cuilean and She who believed in us,

and who gave all that they were so we may thrive. We nourished the ember, formed it, and when
all was whole, we burst forth from She, our mother.

And as the powder-fine soil settled, much to the amazement of all in attendance, our new

form amazed all as we, a fiery-headed babe, crawled naked from the rubble, chortling gleefully.

We rejoiced.
We lived again.