Aika (Keepers of the Flame: Origins)

Chapter Three

                                                     THREE

Aika wasted several days trying, unsuccessfully, to leave the city. Apparently no one was being allowed in or out until security had been sorted. She slept in shelters set up in the Underground, to the earth-shattering dance of bombs overhead. Chaos ensued as people desperately tried to restock Great-Granddad’s WWII air raid shelter in the garden, or sought other alternatives. News media were calling it the Second Blitz.

Numbness pervaded her still, her mind and heart skittering away from the loss of her Jamie-boy. All thought processes were focused on leaving at first opportunity. In the meantime, she was running out of money, and patience.

She didn’t fear the grief so much as she did the anger. It lay banked within her, waiting for a single spark to set it off into a firestorm.

Finally she had little choice but to follow the directions given to her at the police station. Perhaps whoever had gotten her out of jail could also get her out of London.

She hadn’t known what she expected when she found the address—but she certainly hadn’t expected a pub. It was called The Tree and Flame. She rolled her eyes, and entered.

Surprisingly, hardly anyone at all occupied the space appearing larger on the inside than it did from the street. One or two people at the polished oak bar, a few more scattered among the tables. These days every gathering place in the city tended to be stuffed to the rafters, waiting for news or more bombs, whichever came first.

Aika looked around as she sat at the bar. There didn’t appear to be any spears or cauldrons in evidence. There was, however, a sword on the wall behind the bar. She felt as though it were staring at her.

“Ah, there you are.” The innkeeper emerged from the backroom, hefting a large stew pot. “Certainly took your time, didn’t you?”

Aika stared, the resonance of recognition washing over her. “You?”

The old man raised his eyebrows at her. “Who were you expecting, Winston Bloody Churchill?” He wanted to know in a rough Irish brogue. He looked up at the ceiling, reflective. “Then again, considering the circumstances…”

“How did you find me?” She demanded. “And who are you, anyway?”

He tsked at her. “Is that any way to speak to family?”

“Family?”

The bar patrons shuffled up to the bar. The rich, meaty smell of lamb stew permeated her nostrils and made her stomach rumble as he ladled it out into ceramic bowls. “Hungry?”

Another gurgle from her stomach answered for her. He nodded and ladled her a portion, setting it in front of her. People began trickling in through the front door, in ones and twos.

He shoved the stew pot to the end of the bar, along with the stack of bowls and cup of spoons. “Help yourselves, you lot.”

Aika spooned the stew into her mouth. It was heavenly. “Will there be enough?” she asked as more people came in.

“Always is.” He leaned across the bar on crossed elbows. “Now then. Your Gran was a devout woman, as I recall. A Brighid’s cross in the family room, revered the old ways? And your Mum was a bit of a Wiccan?”

Old Irish superstitions had spiced every day of her childhood, and her grandmother had believed Brighid to be their family’s patron saint. “You knew them?”

He tapped his head. “Family, remember?” He looked to the rafters again, this time in recollection. “Mum and Da died young?” He nodded to himself, as if it all fit on the puzzle board of this mind. “Sometimes I get the generations mixed up. We Irish do love our extended families.”