The Malevolent Tree

Wizard of the Flies

The more Tavish thought about his plan for identifying the murder weapon, the broader he smiled. The kitchen would be the perfect place to collect what he needed. But first he needed to stop at the privy.

Being stranded in fairyland had changed his bathroom habits drastically. Back in Glasgow, the only circumstance that had kept him from mounting the porcelain throne whenever the notion struck was being in the middle of a class. In his present primitive circumstances, he braved the journey but once a day. The heaps of rosemary, bog myrtle and hyssop that kept the air tolerable throughout most of the castle were no match for the privy wing. As Tavish hurried down the long granite hall, the reek overwhelmed even the memory of sweeter scents. Now that his hopes of returning to his own time and place had been delayed again, he needed something to occupy his mind—perhaps redesigning the castle's waste disposal system.

When he yanked open the heavy oaken door at the end, the stench in the dank, windowless privy hit him in the face. Clamping a hand over his nose, he crouched. He needed to determine whether the sway in the musty velvet drapes cloaking the three chambers was caused by an occupant or by the draft whistling up through the open toilet holes. The tip of a scabbard poking out of the middle stall made him frown. Generally, guests were required to check their swords with the guard at the gate. As with everything else, Prince Osgar was the exception.

When Tavish detected the bottom of Lord Cullen's black leather boots in the right-most stall, he swept aside the curtains on the left-most, shooed away the fat green flies, lifted his robes above the damp rush matting, fumbled at his belt and aimed his backside at the frighteningly gaping toilet hole. As he concentrated, a long whine like an untuned bagpipe blared from the stall beside him. 

"My aunt, Princess Agneta, will arrive day after tomorrow. She will prepare her sister for the funeral pyre."

"Pyre?" Cullen asked. "You'll be burning the body?"

"That is our custom."

Osgar's sword clanked as he refastened it to his belt. Then his boots clumped across the woven rush mats. 

He's leaving, Tavish thought. Too bad he didn't fall through the toilet hole.

Not until he heard a second set of footsteps and the door scrape open and shut did he grab a handful of dry moss off a side shelf and finish his job.

So, Hextilda has a sister. The princess had told him her understanding of adjacent universes was a family secret. If she had a sister, then maybe the knowledge hadn't died with her after all.

* * * * *

When Tavish poked his head through the kitchen door, Broca planted her hands atop her wide hips. She probably thought he wanted to cadge a bit of bread and cheese, but he had another purpose altogether. Giving her his best don't-mind-me smile, he strolled to the discard heap. Nobody would begrudge him a cheese pot no longer fit for kitchen use. After a moment of rummaging, he held up one with only a couple of hairline fractures in its dark red clay as well as a swatch of cheese cloth and a length of frayed twine.

"Now to collect the flies."

Broca's scraggly eyebrows shot high. "What in the name of creation would you be wanting those for?"

When Tavish gave Broca the answer that had impressed Osgar—"Magic"—she snorted. Then she turned and shook her finger at one of the maidservants. "The master wants more wine for his guest. Not that bottle. The Alcobaca."

From Portugal. That's as far as Cullen had gotten in the crusades. Partway to the Holy Land, a storm had forced his company to drop anchor at Porto on the Iberian coast. When the king had begged for help ousting the Moors from Lisbon, Cullen had joined the siege. During the victory celebration four months later, a messenger had found him. His father was dead. He was wanted at home.

According to Leith, Osgar was the age the previous lord had been when a fall from a horse had snapped his neck. Was Cullen's guilt at never making up with his father the reason he deferred to the prince? Hopefully, the witness of the flies would speak louder.

Broca waved the pestering insects off the remains of the boar. "If you take these, it'd be a blessing. Collect as many as you want."

Tavish took the knife from his belt, pricked his finger and squeezed it over his jar. Best to see if these flies were attracted to human blood before he made a fool out of himself upstairs. Standing motionless, he watched them circle lazily in the air. Soon, everyone in the kitchen stood still as well. Sure enough, when the flies descended again, three ignored the boar, lit on the edge of the clay pot and crawled inside. Tavish waited until another went in, then another. When he had counted a dozen, he dropped the cheese cloth across the jar's mouth and secured it with the twine.

Tavish grinned. He'd read about the science behind what he planned to do, but he'd never actually tried it.

Nan Doonie zipped through the open door and joined the remaining flies in circling overhead. "What are you doing? What are you doing?"

Grabbing an iron ladle, Broca swatted at the fairy. "Out! I don't hold with unseelie beings in my kitchen. They sour the milk."

* * * * *

Tavish trotted up the winding staircase back to the great hall, praying he'd catch the young lord before he left for his afternoon patrol. Flies remained attracted to microscopic blood cells even after residue visible to the naked eye had been washed away, but he didn't know for how long.

When Tavish elbowed the wooden door open, he saw he needn't have worried. Although Cullen was not one for lounging after the midday meal, Prince Osgar was. And Cullen had to be a good host. Tavish had heard of realm-less royals nearly bankrupting small fiefdoms with their demands for free hospitality. If he could solve the murder, maybe he could get Osgar to leave more quickly.

Leith stopped her skittering tune to greet him. Cullen nodded. To Prince Osgar he might as well have been a fly on the wall.

No matter. Tavish pulled himself to his full height and strode forward at a pace that made his wizard's robes billow impressively behind him.

"Milord, I'm ready to take the first step in investigation. I'm ready to reveal the weapon that took Princess Hextilda's life."