Page 12 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Nine

T wo weeks had slipped by since Ward’s passing, and just one week since Dave, Mary, and Val had settled into the home.

Initially, it felt strange to share this place so steeped in memories, and Pen grappled with the notion he might not ever see it as anything other than Ward’s old house.

Yet, as the days went by, the house began to transform.

What had once been a shrine to the past started to feel like a living, breathing home again.

The family gathered around the table for meals, their laughter and conversations spilling onto the porch each evening.

As the sun set behind the old sycamores that bordered the yard, the cool night air carried something within it, a quiet promise of new beginnings.

Pen had finally finished packing up and donating Ward’s belongings, but he left Ward’s study untouched, preserving everything within.

He kept a few cherished items, like Ward’s favorite hat, his typewriter, a baseball glove Pen had used as a child, and an old penny he’d found in the desk drawer, for luck.

While most of Ward’s clothing was sent to the Salvation Army, Pen held onto a few sweaters and two of his suits.

Though they were a bit large, he hoped that one day, when he had the means, he might have them tailored to fit.

Almost every afternoon, Pen found himself in Ward’s study, mapping out his route and scribbling down lists of things he wanted to do at each stop.

The list grew, but the excitement never followed.

He’d sit back, pencil in hand, staring at the circle around New Orleans, or the little star he’d scribbled beside Boston, waiting for the rush.

But it didn’t come. Despite his deep longing to leave, the road trip no longer held the allure it once had.

He told himself it was guilt over leaving Val behind, but deep down, he knew that wasn’t the real reason the excitement hadn’t come.

His eyes kept drifting to the corner of the study, to the envelope on the shelf marked Helensburgh .

The more he planned his journey, the more his thoughts drifted to the mysterious bookstore in Scotland.

Why had Ward never mentioned it? Not once, in all their years together?

Ward had always loved books, priding himself on being a well-read man.

A bookstore would have been his dream come true.

Pen could so easily picture him there, tucked behind a cluttered counter, lost in a novel, surrounded by shelves sagging with stories and wisdom.

It seemed so fitting. Yet Ward had never said a word about it.

Mr. Ross had mentioned the store belonged to his wife Emily’s family, but that only deepened the mystery.

Why hold onto it all these years if they had no intention of running it?

They surely could have sold the building years ago and turned a profit.

It had been sitting abandoned for more than twenty-five years.

Why keep it? The more Pen dwelled on it, the less sense it made.

And the more the questions took up space his head.

As Pen’s mind wandered, he sank into Ward’s old desk chair, the leather creaking beneath him.

He gazed at the long wall of books lining one side of the room.

He rose from his seat and approached the shelves.

His fingers lightly grazed the spines, feeling the worn edges and faded titles beneath his touch.

He walked the wall’s length without purpose, just aimlessly tracing the rows.

Then he stopped. Tucked near the middle, partly hidden by thicker volumes, was a book he didn’t remember seeing before.

Folklore of the Celtic Nations: Wales, Ireland, and Scotland .

He tipped the book forward and eased it out of its snug resting place among the others.

Back at the desk, he settled into the chair and opened the cracked leather cover.

The title page revealed a medieval-style dragon, inked in red and gold, its wings curling across the parchment.

It was reminiscent of those found on chapel ceilings.

A thrill of excitement surged through Pen, the first he’d felt since Ward’s passing, and he flipped through the pages, their edges soft with age.

He discovered tales of creatures he’d never heard of before, Kelpies that lured wanderers into deep water, Afancs lurking in lakes, woven alongside more familiar legends of mermaids and fairies.

Captivated, the light in the study shifted, and hours passed as he found himself lost in the strange, enchanted world of folklore.

“Mary made meatloaf,” Dave said, interrupting as Pen neared the end of the book. “Thought it would be nice to have one last dinner together before you leave tomorrow.” He motioned to him with a large sweeping of his arm toward the other room. “Come on and eat with us.”

Pen looked up and gave Dave a nod, then closed the book with both hands, his fingers lingering before he set it aside.

He stood up slowly, stretching until his spine popped, easing the stiffness from his neck and back after hours in the captain’s chair.

His gaze fell on the map sprawled on the desk, his route traced in red pen, like a newly formed scar stretching across the page.

A growing sense of apprehension took hold as he stared at it, considering the adventure that lay ahead.

He glanced over at the globe resting on the bookshelf.

He could still picture Ward pulling it down for him to spin.

Pen would stick his finger out and stop it at random; wherever his finger landed, Ward would weave a story about that land.

Now Pen realized he had likely made up those tales on the spot, drawn from imagination, not fact.

As a child, he’d believed every word of Ward’s magical adventures.

He had always said, One day you will have your own stories to tell .

Pen had clung to that promise until the day his mother died.

Her loss had shattered his dreams, crushed whatever fragile hope he had of escaping this town.

Even now, as those dreams resurfaced, they lacked the luster they once held, now just the idle wishes of a child.

“Pen, come on, food’s getting cold,” Dave yelled from the other room.

Pen paused in the doorway of the study, looking over his shoulder one last time. The book lay closed, resting next to the map, and he felt a niggling tug, like two competing voices.

The following day, the boys helped Pen load his belongings into Ward’s old Chevrolet Fleetmaster. What few possessions he packed fit easily into the trunk: a battered suitcase filled with clothes, a stack of books for company, the road map marked with red ink, and the urn with Ward’s remains.

The sky was overcast, and the air hung heavy with humidity, matching the unease Pen couldn’t seem to shake.

He stuck his hand into his pocket and flipped the old penny between his fingers, a nervous habit he’d picked up.

Ward had kept that penny for a reason, and Pen decided it was for luck.

As long as it stayed with him, things would turn out fine. At least that’s what he told himself.

He had dreamed of leaving this place for years, but now that the day had arrived, all he felt was doubt.

He had always been his brothers’ anchor.

Without him, who would they turn to? But they were grown now, he reminded himself, and they had each other, just as they always had.

For their sake, Pen tried to summon a smile, projecting an air of confidence he didn’t quite feel.

They looked up to him, and it was his job to show them that there was a whole wide world waiting beyond the confines of Oak Ridge.

“Make sure you give us a ring when you reach Georgia,” Will told Pen, stepping forward and giving him a hearty hug.

“I will,” Pen replied, giving Will a solid pat on the back.

“How long do you reckon you’ll be gone?” Val asked, his voice revealing a trace of the boy he once was, despite the new teenage facade.

“Not more than a few months,” Pen answered, pulling Val into a warm embrace. “Dave and Mary will look after you just fine.”

Dave draped an arm around Mary, pulling her close and grinning proudly. He seemed older now, more like a man, and Pen felt a sense of relief. Val would be in good hands.

“Keep in touch,” Dave said, extending his hand.

“Count on it.” Pen shook it firmly.

Mary smiled and hugged him. “I’ll make sure these boys stay in line,” she teased.

Pen walked over to the car and opened the door, then paused. “Do me a favor. Don’t let Dad into the house. Now that I’m gone, I can just picture him trying to weasel his way in.”

“There’s no chance in hell he’ll set foot in this house,” Dave stated, puffing out his chest with resolve.

“Good. Well, I’ll be seeing you,” Pen said, waving as he shut the car door.

He backed down the driveway, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. They stood waving on the porch, Will, Val, Dave, and Mary, smaller with each passing second.

He didn’t know it yet, but it would be the last time he’d ever see them.