Of Phantasm and Fury

Twilight Treehouse Tales

30 Twilight Treehouse Tales

"...Where winds had beat you hollow..." -E.H. Hanson

Day 4 to Day 5, continued

SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington

"Great catch," Mel breathed, as Abigael let her hands drop, the huge metallic object falling to the floor with an echoing clang.

"Thanks."

The impact broke the glass door wide open, as a pale, limp body slid out partway.

"HARRY!"

Macy fled to his side, hands beneath the weight of his body, as Mel muttered "posito super vestimenta sua," under her breath. The simple charm caused the silk shirt and slacks to fly forth and materialize instantly upon its as-yet unconscious owner, as Mel instinctively clasped Abigael's hand.

"Is he—?" Macy turned to Jordan, who knelt alongside her.

He shook his head. "There," he indicated, motioning toward Harry's chest. "He's breathing—might need some oxygen—but alive. Definitely alive—"

Realizing where her arm was, and her hand besides, Mel released Abigael's own and stepped closer. "We should get him on the couch—over there. Can we lift him?" And on the count of three, they did—Jordan, Macy, Mel, and Maggie.

Abigael stood back, surveying the oddly intimate familial scene. One she had no part of. One in which, time and time again, others made known she could never belong. "Farewell, Melonie," she whispered as she vanished, taking her Vera Manor suitcases alongside her with a brief flick of the wrist. A nice, subtle 'Irish goodbye' would have to be enough. And as the Hopi would say, 'until we meet again.'

SafeSpace Command Center, Seattle, Washington

He continued on his path past the mounds of soil ever-increasing, separating him from the glowing tree up ahead, its twinkling tealights dangling akin to chandelier earrings.

'Remember, remember, the Ides of November,' its weeping willow tendrils whispered to the thrum of the warm gusting gale—he smiled, recalling a simple rhyme from his schoolboy days. One which, as a matter of fact, he himself wrote for a homework assignment. How had it gone again? The words wove themselves in front of him, glowing text that faded just as fast as he could recall them—

Remember, remember, the Ides of November,

The triad of tried and true, Juno, Jupiter, Minerva too.

The dawn of becoming, the birth of new.

Epulum Jovis, the chant must begin,

Of wisdom's prequel to December's wintry wind.

He frowned, trying to remember for the life of him why on earth he decided to write that in the first place. He wasn't much interested in Ancient Greek literature nor Ancient Roman, his Latin knowledge was abysmal, and half the time he was off at the cinema or doing the odd paid errand or two. Surely he had seen something somewhere? Something about a 'triad'—of three? Three powerful goddess-like figures, emblems in history?

Continuing forth to the next lines, 'birth' and 'new' certainly sounded celebratory, but the 'wintry wind' phrasing seemed ominous. As he recited the lines, he noticed a most peculiar (though not entirely unwelcome) phenomenon—the chasm lessened, and grass extended its reach, carpet-like and tenuous, as the tree appeared much closer than before.

Progress, true—but to what end?

He spoke the rhyme's syllables, once, twice, then thrice more as the tree's forked crevice widened, an artfully carved treehouse emerging, bright with glittering bulbs draped across its timbered front. 'What in blazes—?' he muttered, his feet finally reaching the base of the trunk. Instantly, footholds appeared, nailed to the tree's length as he debated whether to ascend into the unknown arbre.