Traveling in the Deep
For eight days the small party of five filed slowly through the forest. The pixies, mounted on the back of the hind, had no difficulty keeping up with their now much larger companions. The small folk chattered nonstop as they traveled. Twiggy often pointed out plants that were new to Molly, explaining their preparation and uses. Pylar and Aacrum talked mostly to Sherlock. Their discussions centered about hunting, battling trolls, and the dangers of the deep. Sherlock spent very little time talking with Molly. Part of her was grateful, as their association had become quite awkward, but a little bit of her was miffed. Who did he think he was to ignore her so? Molly's feelings were quite jumbled about the subject and she was glad the pixies were there to ease the tension. Nights were spent around a roaring campfire and as the weather was merely cool, Sherlock's tent was not required. Everyone rolled up in their cloaks and slept soundly under the watchful eyes of whoever was acting sentry.
Molly discovered her favorite time was early morning. In quiet of the pre-dawn, as the birds were just beginning to sleepily twitter, she could listen to the small soft sounds of nocturnal animals rustling the undergrowth as they returned to their burrows for the day. It was a perfect time for contemplation. One such morning found her wishing that she could stay and live among the pixies. The Deep was an ethereal and charming place; she was happier here than she could ever remember being. She loved Twiggy as a sister, and even Pylar and Aacrums grumblings were endearing. It would be a good life she told herself. There was much she could do to help in the struggle against the goblins, and the pixies could always use a good healer.
Molly's thoughts drifted to their campsite of the day before. They had sheltered under a huge oak tree. It was the largest tree Molly had ever seen. Its branches seemed to extent up and outward forever. The trunk was gigantic. It was large enough to make a roomy house. In her imagination, she thought of how it would look hollowed out with a sturdy door in one side. Small windows, each a level higher than the one before, would indicate a multi-level floor plan. The red boxes attached to the bottom of the windows would contain medicinal herbs and flowers ready for picking. Higher up, she could imagine a door opening out onto a platform built on those sturdy branches. The platform would be perfect for sleeping on hot summer nights. It would sway with the wind and gently rock her to sleep as she lay in the arms of….
Molly shifted her daydream away from such dangerous thoughts. Instead, she forced herself to think of working in the small garden that would be located behind the tree home. Tall hedges of roses would surround the small patch of earth tilled to provide sustenance for the coming winter. She could see herself gathering vegetables for their next meal, Sherlock walking through the gate with his latest catch of rabbit and squirrel….
"Molly," her daydream was abruptly interrupted, "Molly, wake up! It's time to move on," Sherlock said gruffly.
"Oh, yes, um just a mo…I need to gather my things." Molly mumbled. Molly stumbled about packing her things quickly while the others waited patiently. Why couldn't Sherlock be nicer to her? As they headed down the path, Molly took one last glance over her shoulder in the direction in which they had come.
No matter how much she justified her arguments with herself for remaining, or dreamed dreams of contented country life, Molly knew it was not possible. Queen Irgraine's words of prophecy echoed in her thoughts. Destiny was pointing her down a different path and had no compassion for the wants and wishes of a silly girl. Molly sighed and looked across the pixies riding the hind once again to the figure of Sherlock of Holmes on the other side. His face was stoic as he marched along.
Sherlock of Holmes was a complete mystery to Molly Hooper. That he attracted her, she could not deny, but she just did not know what to make of the man. He was a portrait of contradictions. He was a wizard for one thing. Molly still struggled with the concept of the existence of 'good' wizards. How could she ever be associated with a man who wielded magic? Molly shivered, it was unnatural. But what about her life was normal since the appearance of Sherlock of Holmes? Molly thought of the words written in the small book in her basket. She was fated to fall in love with two dark and handsome men. One would betray that love and seek to destroy her. The book had not assured her that either of the men would love her back.
"Which are you, Sherlock of Holmes?" Molly whispered a little desperately. The last words of the book haunted her. "The fate of the kingdom, nay, the fate of all kingdoms, rests within the hands of the Nimue, Marganah."
Molly was Marganah and she was sorely afraid. The weight of her destiny hung about her neck like a noose.
Molly was grateful for the small folks company. Their incessant chatter filled the awkwardness between Sherlock and herself. Although she could tell he was no longer angry with her, Molly sensed reluctance and standoffishness about Sherlock's attitude. He didn't talk to her, and often went out of his way to ignore her as much as possible. It made her feel sad, but at the same time angry. She had done nothing to the man! What was his problem? Before all the fuss and bother, she had felt there had been a good chance that they might become at least friends. Now, with all the talk of powers and Nimue and Sherlock's accusing glares, she felt like she no longer was herself, but had mysteriously transformed into something wicked and evil. Molly was the first to acknowledge that she was no expert when it came to dealing with men, but surely it shouldn't be this difficult to get along.
The days wore on and as time passed pleasantly and uneventfully, Molly began to relax. Sherlock's attitude was his problem, it had nothing to do with her and she refused to continue feeling guilty. She began to enjoy her surroundings. There was so much to see and learn about. Twiggy was a marvelous teacher and Molly enjoyed her naughty sense of humor when it came to the menfolk.
"Why do men like smart women?" Twiggy sang out loudly one afternoon as they traveled along.
"I don't know. Why?" Molly asked.
"It's because opposites attract!" Twiggy tittered as Pylar and Aacrum angrily huffed.
"Why do female black widow spiders kill the males after mating?" Twiggy asked next.
Molly looked over with raised eyebrows.
"To stop the snoring before it starts!" Twiggy giggled.
Things really got stirred up with her next question:
"How can you tell when a man is well hung?" Twiggy asked as she stared off into the forest. Behind her Aacrum made a distinct choking sound as Pylar growled.
Molly stared at her friend, she was not about to touch that with a ten foot pole!
"When you can just barely slip your finger in between his neck and the noose." Twiggy said brightly.
Molly couldn't help herself and began to giggle. She glanced over at Sherlock and saw his lip curl slightly upward before it quickly straightened out.
"This is outrageous woman!" Pylar roared, "you will stop this nonsense immediately!"
"Or what?" Twiggy demanded. "You have no say over what I wish to talk about! You are not my mate or will ever come close to being my mate, so shut your cakehole. If I want to talk to Molly, and make a few truthful observations, I will." Twiggy crossed her arms and glared back at the men.
Molly was sure they were going to come to blows, when Sherlock suddenly intervened.
"Did you hear about the man who finally figured out women?" Sherlock asked quietly.
Everyone looked at him expectantly.
"He died laughing before he could tell anybody," Sherlock answered.
There was a long pause, and then everyone including Twiggy began to laugh. The tension that had been building up dissipated into thin air.
Suddenly Sherlock held up his hand. "Someone is coming down the path," He said tersely.
Everyone stilled in an instant. Sure enough, the sound of the steady clopping of hooves could be heard in the distance. Floating over the thin air, were faint sounds of a high quavering voice singing. The voice wafted lazily through the forest.
"Are you goin' to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Remember me to the one who lives there,
She once was a true love of mine.
Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
Without no seams nor needlework,
Then she'll be a true love of mine."
Soon a figure on a small donkey came around the curve in the path. Seated on the donkey was one of the strangest sights Molly had ever seen. The small woman was very old. She was dressed as if appearing in court. Her lavender robes were decked with lace and finery. On her head was a huge hat sporting a bright pink feather which dipped and swayed in the breeze. The woman peered at them brightly and called out in a cheery voice.
"There you are! I've been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?"
"Pardon me?" Sherlock said. "Who are you?"
Beside them, Molly could hear Pylar growl to Aacrum, "Bloody old bat! Why can't she stay where she belongs?"
"Who is she?" Molly whispered, but before either man could say a word, Molly was answered by the lady herself.
"Why I am Martha Hudson of course!" the old lady answered as she stared intently at Sherlock. "I've been waiting for you for weeks. What kept you?"
Sherlock stared at the old woman in confusion. "Madam, I have never seen you in my life. How can you have been waiting for me?"
Martha Hudson peered past Sherlock's shoulder and looked at the pixies seated on the hind. She glared back at Sherlock.
"You've been lolling about with them!" She frowned as she pointed at the three small folk. It's a wonder you managed to escape, they are such a tricksome lot!"
"You, old woman," Twiggy shouted angrily, "are a bothersome old biddy! They were our invited guests and able to leave whenever they wished."
"After a day and a night!" Martha Hudson grumbled. "and by that time they were thoroughly bewitched I expect!" She looked grumpily at Sherlock. "Well, are you going to help me off my ass young man? I'm not as young as I used to be and my hip is creating havoc just now."
Molly snickered at the look of outrage on Sherlock's face as he helped the old woman from her donkey. "Help her get down off her ass indeed!" Molly snickered again.
"And just what is so funny?" Martha Hudson asked Molly.
"N-nothing," Molly assured her and curtsied in greeting.
"Just as well you remembered your manners young lady," The old woman grumbled. "In my day, girls were brought up to properly acknowledge their betters."
Molly thought to herself that that day must have been a very long time ago. She looked up from her curtsy in time to see a small smile on the old woman's face. It was as if she could read her mind!
"You may address me as Mrs. Hudson." The old woman announced. "Lady Hudson is much too formal for such quaint surroundings and I detest being called Mad Martha." She glared in the direction of the pixies who crossed their arms, looked angry, but did not respond.
"What do you want with me, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked in a stiff formal voice.
Mrs. Hudson ignored him and much to his annoyance, she patted him on the arm and said, "I may have misspoke."
She looked directly into Molly's eyes and murmured. "It's you, I've dreamed about you all my life, and here you finally are!"
"W-what?" Molly stammered. This woman had to be at least seventy if she were a day. How could she have dreamed about her all her life?
"I am a seer." Mrs. Hudson announced calmly. "I see the future, I know things."
"She's a bloody fortune teller!" Pylar shouted. "That old bat couldn't see her way out of a tea cup!"
"Pylar," Sherlock shouted angrily. "I don't care if she can't find her way across the room. Have some respect for an elder."
"Sorry," Pylar had the grace to mutter.
Sherlock nodded and turned to face Mrs. Hudson. "What sort of seer are you?"
"Martha Hudson drew herself up proudly. "I am a third order Oracle of Dryw"
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Why are you here?"
"To help, of course." She ignored Aacrum's and Pylar's angry snorts.
"Don't listen to her Sherlock. She's just the batty old lady who lives in a hut in the forest with about a million cats! Cats!" Twiggy said in disgust.
"I like cats," Molly said.
Mrs. Hudson beamed in approval.
"How could you like cats? Cats are evil!" Twiggy exclaimed.
Martha Hudson looked at Molly and then at Sherlock. She stared off into the treetops for a few minutes longer than Molly was comfortable with. Suddenly the old woman turned and shouted at Sherlock.
"You haven't blended with her have you?"
"What? No, of course not!" Sherlock roared back.
"Well, at least that's something in your favor!" Mrs. Hudson sniffed as she turned to Molly. "I see I have my work cut out for me." She dusted her hands and hobbled over to the donkey to retrieve a dark glass bottle which she unstopped and proceeded to take a swig of it contents. "It's for my hip, you know." She said in way of explanation. "I don't trust you entirely young man," she said as she looked sternly at Sherlock." You may be the one, or you may not. The truth is not yet clear." She ignored Pylar's sarcastic remark about how nipping at her bottle might help her to tell the future better. "I sense darkness in you." She continued. She turned and looked at Molly. "Be wary around this one," she said pointing to Sherlock.
"Pardon me," Molly said politely, "but how are you going to help us?"
"I will help him if he proves worthy," Mrs. Hudson sniffed. She looked at Molly and sighed. "And you, for you I hope to prevent a fate worse than death!"