The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted
Chapter 9 - I’m Where?

I flew high above the white-crested waves of the open sea. Cold, moist air tickled my nose as I breathed in the pungent tang of the briny water. Far below, a small rowboat carrying three men slowly approached the white cliffs of an otherwise emerald colored island.

Without conscious choice, I flew closer. Two knights in battered armor and an older man with a flowing white beard. The knight with the purple cape lay unmoving in the boat with a wound in his side. The wound was packed with white linen, and blood leaked from the saturated cloth, leaving a shallow crimson pool at the bottom of the boat. The older rolled up the sleeves of his blue robes began to remove the bloody bandages, while the other knight rowed the small boat towards shore.

The perspective suddenly shifted to a dirt road traversing vast acres of green fields and apple orchards. The sweet smell of the blossoms filled the spring air. The injured man sat slumped on his horse, while his companions rode on either side, propping him up in the saddle. At the head of the party were two inhumanly beautiful women of middle eastern decent, wearing silk robes and driving a chariot pulled by a pair of monstrous black horses. The women appeared to be arguing, though I couldn’t make out the words.

The scene shifted again, and now I was in the throne room of some opulent palace. Colorful tapestries and rugs with intricate patterns covered the grey stone walls and marble floors. Carvings of fairies and forest animals decorated the room’s marble pillars and the legs and arms of the gilded throne. The throne itself was on a raised dais of white marble and looked down on an open section of floor, where the two men from earlier knelt beside their injured friend. From the throne, a beautiful woman with pale skin and a mass of raven hair flowing over her shoulders watched the men impassively.

The woman spoke but the only words I could make out were brother and fool. She laughed cruelly at the men and the old man turned red in the face and screamed, but his words were lost to me as the perspective shifted yet again.

This time I was standing rather than floating above looking through a thick layer of fog in front of what appeared to be dirty window glass. All I could see was uneven lighting and deep shadows beyond the glass, but then the shadows sharpened into the face of the cruel woman I had seen on the throne. As I stared into her brown eyes, a slow smile began to spread across her ruby-red lips – and suddenly it felt like someone was sitting on my chest. Her smile showed her straight, white teeth in a way that was almost a snarl, and her eyes were cold and menacing.

“Ah, my mother’s bastard returns from the grave yet again,” the woman said.

My skin began to chill, and I had to fight to force even the slightest bit of air into my lungs.

“You’re like an irritating rash that almost goes away,” she continued, “only to sprout back up again elsewhere.”

I gasped for air, having to force my lungs to expand and contract with each painful breath.

She’s tried this before. It’s just a battle of wills. And we both know you’re too stubborn to let her win.

I gave her THE LOOK, unfiltered, full force, set to kill. She grimaced and I gasped as cool air flooded my lungs. The fog thickened between us, until all I could see was her outline.

Merlin taught us to say something if she tried this again. Do you remember?

What was it? Oh, yeah.

“Surgit!”

***

I woke gasping, and I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Was I just dreaming I was trapped in a snow globe? That’s random. Wait, where am I?

I sat straight up in bed and felt a stabbing pain in my stomach and another, duller pain in my right arm made me cry out. I squeezed my eyes shut and slowly lowered myself back down – focusing on taking slow, deep breaths until the pain subsided.

Ok Kenzie don’t panic. You were on Lucía ’s plane when you passed out. This bed feels like I’m on a cloud with angels massaging my scalp, so someone is taking care of me. Wait, wasn’t I bleeding?

I opened my eyes and found and trier to look around without sitting up. I was in a spacious room that was probably bigger than dad’s master bedroom. The shades were drawn on the windows across the room, but sunlight slipped through the seams, illuminating the darkened room in a hazy glow.

An IV tube ran from the big blue vein in the crook of my right arm to a transparent plastic bag that hung off a hook on a skinny metal pole. The bag slowly dripped some sort of clear liquid back down the tube and into my arm. I pulled up a giant shirt that wasn’t mine with my free hand and prodded gently at the white, flashcard-sized strip of white gauze that was taped to the right side of my stomach.

What are the odds that this bandage is the only thing holding all my organs in? Probably slim. It’s not bloody at least. I feel like I need to poke at it.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

Ok, that was stupid. Wait, why is my hip so warm? Please don’t be pee.

I exhaled when I reached down and felt fur. As I stroked a fluffy fat belly, I heard Ben’s distinctive, demanding meow.

“Bennie Boo!”

I dragged all twelve pounds of his dead weight up to my face so I could kiss and snuggle him. It made my wound ache, but it was worth it. As usual, his expression said he wasn’t completely happy about all the excessive attention, but he didn’t resist. He’s accepted his lot in life.

I pulled myself out of bed, but slowly this time, and with one hand held gingerly over the bandage so I wouldn’t lose my contents. Just in case. The neck of the t-shirt hung down to my collarbone, and the bottom half-way down my thighs.

“Either we’re in the nicest prison on earth, or Lucía is loaded,” I said in Ben’s general direction. He was busy cleaning his face with his paws and didn’t react.

I mean, she has her own jet so that’s not much of a stretch, Kenz.

The walls of my beautiful prison were the grey-blue color that the hosts on Mrs. Lin’s home design shows seem to like, and the crown molding along the ceiling matched the dark, hardwood floors. A small red desk and matching chair stood in the far corner, and a white framed full-length mirror hung from the wall beside it. A handful of original paintings adorned the walls. The one on the opposite wall was a jar of yellow and red poppies painted in a very distinct style.

When I swung my legs off the edge of the bed, I dislodged Ben from his comfortable nest against my hip, and he loudly meowed his disapproval.

“I’m sorry buddy,” I cooed. I gave him an extra scratch between his ears, which seemed to mollify him. His purr motor started to run, and he plopped down in the warm spot I’d just vacated.

A tug on my arm halted my walk towards the painting. I sighed as I realized I was still attached to an IV. Luckily, the pole had wheels and a handle, and after a few steps I was happy to have the support because my legs felt like gelatin. Halfway across the room, I could see the signature on the painting.

No way. Who has an original Van Gogh in their guest bedroom? I didn’t know he did poppies. I always liked the irises while dad was more of a sunflower guy. Dad? Oh no, no, no, no, no...

“No! No! No!”

I lost my grip on the pole and went down hard to the floor. I let out a scream that was some pain but mostly rage. Ben tore out of the bed, looked around panicked and wild-eyed and then disappeared under the bed. Time seemed to melt away, and I cried until my tear ducts ran out of water. After a while I realized I’d been watching a line of sun slowly make its way across the floor.

I peeked under the bed and saw Ben staring back at me, wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry buddy,” I tried again. Judging by his lack of response, he wasn’t buying it this time. “You’re embarrassed by me right now, aren’t you?” He didn’t disagree. “You’re right. This isn’t exactly regal. If Lucia comes in and replaces me here on the floor…”

No, no, I’m not talking to myself. I mean, I was earlier, but now I’m talking to my cat. Oh, there’s what I need.

On the nightstand next to the bed, I spotted a wooden serving tray holding a clear pitcher of water and a matching glass. The pitcher was half-filled with ice and covered with condensation. I licked my lips.

My mouth tastes like bellybutton lint. Theoretically anyway. I know from stories that I used to eat sand. I tried a booger once. Never lint though. I guess I have some standards. You’re procrastinating and you know it.

On my third try, with a little swearing for emphasis and the IV pole for stability, I made it to my feet. Breathing hard from the exertion, I leaned on the pole and willed my wobbly legs to keep from buckling as I worked on crossing the expanse of hardwood between me and the bed. Ben beat me to the bed and decided my pillow was now his. It was now mostly obscured by layers of belly and orange fur.

“Really,” I said. “It had to be my pillow.”

He ignored me and began to lick himself.

“Right,” I muttered, as I poured myself a glass of water.

I didn’t realize just how thirsty I was until my first sip. After that, I proceeded to drain the first glass and then another. Just as I was easing myself slowly back into bed, I heard the door creak and turned to see a pretty Hispanic woman somewhere in the mom age range. Her eyebrows shot up and her eyes widened when she saw me out of bed.

“Dear, you shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said. Her Hispanic accent made the English words seem more robust – like she was getting everything she could out of every single letter. Her black hair was a little on the poufy side, there was enough makeup for a tv news anchor, and she was way overdressed in a fancy pink and white skirt-suit and black heels. The smile seemed genuine though.

“Um, sorry,” I said, unsure of what else to say.

“No, it’s my fault,” the woman replied. “Lucia and I took turns sitting with you last night and most of today. I should have known that the moment I snuck away to start supper, you’d wake up. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I feel fine actually,” I said honesty. “I’m a little tired, but the pain isn’t bad.”

“That’s the morphine talking, dear,” she said. “Oh, excuse my manners. My name is Franchetta Castíle… but you can call me Fran. I’m Lucía’s mother.”

Once she said that, I could see the resemblance in the eyes and lips – and the womanly curves if I’m being honest.

She continued, “You’re currently in the guest room in our Málagan summer home. And allow me say what a pleasure it is to welcome you as our guest. I never thought I would have the honor of meeting the High Queen in my lifetime.”

I waited a second to see if any magical speeches sprang from my mouth. None did, so I smiled and nodded my head slightly in a way that I hoped would appear regal.

Fran grabbed the char from the desk and pulled it over to the bed.

“Is Málaga near LA?” I asked as Fran sat.

She smiled. “No dear, Málaga is in southern España.” She must have seen my furrowed brow because she added, “In Spain. You don’t remember?” I shook my head. “You were a little rummy when you arrived, and you’ve been out cold since I performed surgery.”

“I’m in Europe?” I asked, proving, I could pass 3rd grade geography. I followed up with, “And why exactly did I need surgery?”

“You were shot the evening before you arrived,” Fran answered. “Lucía packed the wound with gauze and gave you something for the pain, but she didn’t feel comfortable doing the procedure on the flight here. Medicine isn’t my girl’s strength. She’s more the woman if action.”

“I remember having blood on my shirt,” I said, “but I don’t remember actually being shot. I didn’t even feel it.”

“Considering the night you had, that doesn’t surprise me,” Fran replied. “Besides, all I found when I went in was a small piece of shrapnel right above your belly button. I was probably from a ricochet,” she said, matter-of-factly. “It was fairly superficial. You lost a bit of blood, but your life was never in danger.”

“Not from the wound anyways,” I added.

“You experienced more trauma in one evening than most people will in a lifetime,” Fran said. “I offer my heartfelt condolences, and if you feel like talking…”

I shook my head and stuck my thumb nail into my finger so I wouldn’t cry. “I don’t really feel like talking about it,” I said when the knot in my throat finally subsided. “I guess I’m lucky that you ended up being a doctor,” continued as my hand went unconsciously to the wound at my side.

“Not luck, actually, though I’m not technically a doctor,” Fran answered.

“Huh?”

“I didn’t attend medical school or anything like that,” Fran answered. I guess you could say that I’ve been trained like a doctor. We all wear many hats in this family. I received my medical training from my mother for this very reason.”

“To patch up random girls that show up on your doorstep with injuries?” I asked.

“Oh, not random girls my dear,” she answered. “Just you, and my family of course, when they’re injured in your service. There is some inherent danger in serving the High King after all,” she then smiled and winked at me, “or Queen in this case. Speaking of medical treatment, why don’t I take a look at that wound of yours.”

I nodded and pulled up my shirt a little to expose the bandage, and Fran began to peel away the tape. I did my best not to flinch.

“How much of your previous lives do you remember?” Fran asked, after the first strip was removed.

I shrugged and answered truthfully. “None.”

“Then how did you remember the knighting ceremony?” Fran asked.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” I replied. “It was like I was playing a role that I knew by heart. Did Lucía tell you about it?”

“It’s all she’s been talking about. Did she give her little speech?” I nodded and a look of pride showed on Fran’s face. “My little girl is always prepared. She’s been practicing that speech in the mirror since she was twelve – just in case the opportunity ever arose.” She pursed her lips and added, “As for your memories, I’m sure some of them will come back to you in time.”

Will I get all the bad memories too? How many lifetimes of memories of eating broccoli do I have?

“So, I’ll remember everything?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s how it works,” Fran answered. “I doubt a human brain could hold that much knowledge. The life of King Arthur seems to be a stronger set of memories than the other lives, but it does vary person-to-person. For example, I read that Sir Francis Drake could remember the favorite desserts of each of his previous lifetimes.”

Fran pulling the gauze away from the wound made me suck in a breath. Under the bandage was a thin surgical wound held together by thin loops of black thread.

“Six stitches,” Fran said. “Four would have done, but I wanted to make extra sure it didn’t scar.”

The wound looked unnaturally white, which is saying something for me, and there was a bit of dried blood on the bandage. I started getting sweaty and a little woozy and decided maybe I wouldn’t watch Fran work.

“Have you met other,” I paused, looking for the right words, “versions of me before today?”

“No dear, you’re the first for me,” Fran replied. “It’s been hundreds of years since anyone in my immediate family has served a High King. The last to have that honor was my ancestor Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar in the 1400’s. My distant aunts and uncles in England had the most recent honor during World War II.”

“So, your family business is serving me?” I asked.

“It’s more our family’s purpose,” Fran replied.

“How big of a family are we talking?” I’d never even met a cousin, let alone known their family history.

“There are three branches of my extended family, and each has their own role in supporting the High King’s endeavors. The Castile’s for example, have been involved in the banking industry for over a millennium.”

“I have banks?”

“In the simplest sense, yes,” Fran agreed. “Money is power after all. My cousins the McGregor’s in London handle the scientific endeavors.”

“So, I have scientists too,” I replied. “Not as exciting.”

“Perhaps not at parties,” Fran agreed, “but the profits they make on some of the gadgets could fund a standing army. The iPhone for example.”

“I own Apple?”

“No,” Fran sad with a chuckle, “but it wouldn’t be possible without the battery technology that we developed.”

“That’s cool,” I said halfheartedly.

I’d rather own Apple.

She placed a fresh bandage and placed it over the wound. “Hold here please.”

I held the gauze down while she applied the first strip of white surgical tape.

Suddenly, I remembered Merlin, and I felt like a jerk to have not thought about him sooner.

“Merlin!” I grabbed Fran’s wrist. “Fran, have you heard from Merlin?”

“No,” she answered, and her smile was gone. She took my hands in hers and said, “But he’s the Merlin of legend after all. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

She was lying, or maybe just hoping. Either way, it was written all over her face. She recovered quickly though.

“I bet you’re hungry,” Fran said. “Why don’t you come downstairs with me and meet the rest of the family.”

Suddenly, my insides felt hollow. “You got any chocolate cake?”

She smiled and nodded and my mind was made up.