Page 51 of The Witches Catalogue of Wanderlust Essentials (Natural Magic #2)

Chapter 29

Windchimes and Weathervanes

W ill had spent the last two days sitting by himself in a booth at the Bunny Hole, stewing and hoping to meet up with Burnside. The old porter wasn’t returning his calls, and Will wasn’t answering Zani’s.

Arthur and Maida had been glad to see him when he and Zani had first returned from their visit to Amrita. But since they’d sensed the tension between him and Zani, they had pulled away. They claimed they were giving the two of them their “space.” Even Granny Luna was avoiding him. She hadn’t pestered him to run a single errand.

He couldn’t believe that Zani had kept her deal with Cosimo from him after all they had been through together. And she still wanted him to take her back to the train. For what? So she could catch that vampire in the act and run off with him? He didn’t really think that was the case, but then again, he didn’t know what to think. His imagination was running off to some pretty dark places.

Had she just been using him?

Will drained the last of his coffee and picked at the pink paper carton full of donuts. The sight of the sweet sugary treats nauseated him now. He’d had no appetite since his last port. He’d had to force himself to drink something other than coffee.

Never, since he was a child, had Will felt more alone.

Maida had Arthur, Amrita had (at long last) Buffalo, Zephyr and Minerva were absolutely cheesy about their late-in-life love affair, and even Granny Luna had Dr. Dvita to help her wind her balls of yarn and praise her latest shopping haul. But Will had no one. No living family, no special someone to hold hands with in the void.

The only person who he felt might understand him now was Burnside. Burnside was like him. A mixed magical anomaly, a rare half-breed with one foot in the real world and the other in the ether.

Perhaps porters were simply meant to be alone, Will considered. Never completely here or there as they moved through space, and now time, like eternal drifters. Such an unusual existence made commitments tricky.

But in Zani, he’d thought he’d found a partner. A kindred spirit. Someone unphased by the constant changes in time, temperature, and location that were his normal. Someone willing to wander with him.

It all came down to her obsession with that stone, and the vampire who’d put her up to it.

At this point, he hated Cosimo. Not only for putting Zani at risk, but for his selfishness in stealing the stone to begin with. How many lives might have been spared if Cosimo hadn’t been so ambitious?

Will patted his pocket for money to leave a tip, and pulled out an old plane voucher instead. He tried to always keep one or two on hand in the event of an emergency. Flying was usually not ideal, but it was better than nothing. It was a shame that the voucher had already expired. His lack of energy and lack of appetite were not ideal for porting. He might have been tempted to use the voucher himself to get back to Boston.

Finally, he found a bill in his other pocket. He slapped it onto the table, slipping it under a corner of the donut box so it wouldn’t fly away. Will was done waiting for Burnside Porter to come to him. He would go straight to the man himself.

* * *

Will had never been to Burnside’s Laguna Beach studio. It was off the beaten tourist track, deep in the canyon. Perhaps it was the proximity to tectonic fault lines, or maybe it was his lack of nourishment, but when Will tried to port there, he overshot his mark. He found himself in a rustic outhouse, around the backside of the studio, rather than inside the studio proper.

His exit was rapid, as he suspected the makeshift restroom was an excellent home for spiders.

“Burnie, are you here?” he called out from the yard. There wasn’t much to the studio, it was just a small A-frame building, tucked into the hillside. A sign out front advertised his business. It read: Porter’s Pottery. Windchimes, Weathervanes, and Sundials.

Will stood for a moment in the dappled sunlight, taking it all in. He listened to the chimes clinking, pinwheels spinning, and wind ruffling through the long-leaved eucalyptus trees. Birds darted here and there, chirping and flapping their wings in the tiled bird bath out front. A few feet away, he noticed a kaleidoscope of monarch butterflies gathering on a damp patch of ground.

He took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh scent of the trees. This was a truly magical place Burnside had cobbled together.

“Burnie?” he called out again, with no luck.

The gardens around the side of the studio were terraced and divided into neatly squared off sections marked with different years and place names. Will saw Brighton Beach, New York, and Portland, Maine. Los Angeles, California, had a large section and behind a metal bench was a raised planter dedicated to a string of tropical islands.

Over by the three-tiered fountain, Will was surprised to find a section labeled “Versailles,1689,” and another for Baltimore circa 1980, which appeared to still be a work in progress.

Wildflowers bloomed everywhere with little regard for the carefully divided sections. Honeybees buzzed in and out of the blossoms, paying no mind to the clinking of the chimes in the wind.

A few areas at the top, closest to the building, weren’t designated by a time or a place, but contained ceramic creations that seemed to be named for people. There was a sundial covered with shells, golden spangles, and a tiny mermaid that was signed “For Goldie, 1915.”

A windchime for someone called Isaac from that same era was made of tiny reels of film. Will was most surprised to see a polished copper weathervane with his name on it. In place of the traditional rooster was a rather good ceramic caricature of Will’s face. His Fae features were exaggerated, his ears were a bit more pointed, and his expression more mischievous.

“Where are you at, you old time bandicoot??” Will muttered. He batted the weathervane with his name on it. It spun around and around furiously, as if it didn’t intend to slow down until it had an answer for him.

“Okay, then,” Will said. “I’ll just show myself in.”

He climbed up the wooden stairs and onto the deck. Aside from a couple of folding chairs near the kiln, the deck was unfurnished and unadorned. Will was surprised that Burnside hadn’t put more care into the decor and maintenance of the building. He’d assumed the old man lived there. But now he saw that there was no way this was possible. Through the open windows, he could see the interior of the studio was just as sparse as the deck. Racks of finished creations stood next to shelves loaded down with tools and glazes. A potter’s wheel stood in the corner. This was not a home, it was a workspace.

Will tried the door and found it was unlocked. It swung to the inside.

“Hello?” Will called out again, looking around for Burnside. There weren’t many places to look. The studio was just one room. The only furnishings were a worktable and a high stool, both of which were dotted with paint spatter and crumbs of clay.

Curiously, a hot cup of coffee sat, still steaming, on the table. Beside it, there was a manila envelope with Will’s name on it. He picked it up and stared at it suspiciously.

Had the old porter just given him the slip?

The envelope was thick. Too thick for Will’s liking. A simple note would have been less unsettling. This had the weight of serious proceedings. A legal document, perhaps. Will was very wary about any communications that required a metal clasp as well as a seal. Best to get it over with.

He perched on the stool, folded back the metal grommets and slid the contents out of the envelope.

Inside was another smaller envelope and a letter on a single sheet of antique linen paper. Written in blue fountain pen ink, in a loopy old fashioned hand, it read:

Dear Will,

I’ve just embarked on my final port. Please forgive me, but I got a call that I’ve been waiting to take for a very long time. I could not ignore it. The coffee is for you. Don’t let it get cold. I poured the last shot of my best porting whiskey in it. The dirigible is also yours. You’ll find the paperwork in the envelope. I think you’ll find it an upgrade to your van, if a bit less modern. Please take care of her. And Zani, too. She’ll fill you in on the details. I plan to pass her the keys when we get back to the train. Consider it my wedding present to the two of you.

Yes, that train. But it’s not what you think. Zani will explain.

Yours, with Affection,

Burnside Porter

PS When you decide to visit me in the future (or shall I say in the past?), you’ll find me in the same booth at Gampy’s on most Wednesdays throughout the 1980s. What can I say? Nobody since has topped their Monte Christos, and I’ve enjoyed many lunches there with friends. It’s brought me a lifetime of happy memories to cherish. Not necessarily all my own!

PPS Go easy on Zani. There’s a good reason I’m taking her back to the train. My timeline ends around there, but I’ve got it on good authority from both of you from your circa 1983 lunch with me, that yours (plural) doesn’t. No spoilers, Will, but you’re going to forgive her. You already have. There’s no reason to be overly linear about it. Chronological order is overrated, if you ask me. Life is too short not to spend as much of it as possible with the people you love.

So let’s both cut to the chase. I’ve so enjoyed, and will enjoy, our time together. We may not be blood kin but us porters need to stick together. Don’t forget to take the weathervane. If there is an afterlife for us porters, it may help you find me there.

There was still something in the envelope. Will shook it and a third, much smaller envelope dropped out. Written in the same blue ink, in tiny letters, was a third postscript.

PPPS I’ve one last errand to do after taking Zani to the train. I hope you don’t mind fetching her and the dirigible. You’ll need this to get there. -B

Will peeked inside and was met with a shocking flash of turquoise blue light from the miniscule gem inside. A fourth postscript was scrawled on the inside of the flap.

PPPPS I guess this makes you the tooth fairy. Ha!

It was just like Burnside to get in the last word. No lozenges necessary.

Will set down the letter and picked up the mug. There was at least as much whiskey as coffee in it, but at the moment, he didn’t care.