Chapter 51
So Henry stretched the truth a bit about the castle too. (It's not lying, Gold assures Belle; it's typical boyish bragging. A fella's got to brag about his dad and grandpas; it's a social requirement; and until recently Henry didn't have any male kin to brag about.)
It's a B & B the Golds stay in when they visit Loch Ness, and they stay only three weeks, not the summer as Henry had boasted. Not that Gold couldn't have afforded a castle, but Belle adores waking up in a cozy, quilted bed with the smell of breakfast cooking and the warm voices of other guests exchanging pleasantries with the hosts rising from downstairs. Gold would prefer privacy, but as with the sunshine she insisted on bringing into the Dark Castle, he's happier when she gets her way than when he gets his. For her, he'll get used to anything. In return, Belle learns to appreciate soccer and tolerate the odd fishing expedition, as long as it doesn't involve standing in a cold river.
"Where are you from?" The host asks as they sign the register. "I recognize your accent, Missus, as Melbourne, but you," he peers at Gold, "I can't place. Nova Scotia, perhaps?"
Belle giggles as her husband reddens. "I'm told I was born in a little village called Lochdubh." Gold doesn't mention that the source of that information was a curse. "But that was a long time ago. I've lived in several places since then."
"Oh. Well, welcome to Scotland. You've come then to look for Nessie? Most people do."
"No, came for a bit of fishing. And we're on our honeymoon."
"I can help with that! The fishing, of course, not the honeymoon. A fisherman—we get so few of them; the monster hunters drove 'em out. Now, I see you've brought no gear, but I can outfit you nicely. . . ."
Truth be told, though, Gold has come to see Nessie. He's one of the few who can. He has a debt to pay. Fully outfitted, though not expecting to get much fishing done, he and Belle rent a boat and go out in the late afternoon. "I'd rather not be out here after dark," Belle shivers.
"We won't be," he assures her. "We'll come out again in the morning, but for now, I want to talk to the creature who lives here, and he usually doesn't wake up until mid-day. The lazy git."
Suddenly the waters churn, waves threaten the rowboat, and Belle clings for dear life to the bench as Gold struggles with his paddles to keep the boat upright. "Knock it off!" he shouts. "Damn it, Gary, I've got my wife with me."
A serpentine head half the size of the boat rises slowly from the water. The mouth opens and as Belle clutches to reality, a strangely high-pitched voice issues forth. "Sorry, wizard. I thought you might like to play." The creature dips it snaky head. "Sorry, milady."
"Th-that's all right." Belle's teeth chatter.
"Gary, this is Belle of Avonlea, my wife. Belle, meet Gary of Camelot."
"Greetings, milady. I've never been to Avonlea but I've heard it's lovely. I don't get to travel much."
"I've come to fix that," Gold says sheepishly.
Belle muses, "Camelot. Did you know Arthur?"
"No, milady. I was a lowly shoemaker." The creature cocks it head and. . .glares?. . . at Gold.
"What Gary's implying in his not-so-subtle way is that it's my fault he's. . .like this." Gold points a paddle at the creature. "A monster."
"A sideshow freak," Gary grumbles. "I have a wife too, you know, not that I'll ever see her again. She's back in Camelot. Can't even write her a letter because the wizard here gave me no hands."
"I'm sorry, Gary. That was a nasty thing for me to do and I apologize. I'm here to fix it." Gold lays his paddles down and digs around in his jacket.
"Did he tell you what he did to me, milady?" Huge tears roll down the monster's cheeks. "He threw a hissy fit and turned me into a sea serpent, and then a pirate came along and captured me and sold me to the knave of Wonderland, where I was forced to give the courtiers rides around the moat. Do I look like a pony to you, milady? And then a realm jumper took me from Wonderland to Neverland, and then there was a typhoon and I landed atop a giant's beanstalk and I ate some beans and poof! I woke up here. All because Master Particular there didn't like the shoes I made him."
"They pinched my bunions!"
"And for that I deserved to be turned into a sea serpent? You could have asked for a refund."
"I'm making it up to you. I can't send you back to Camelot because I don't have a portal, but at least I can make you human again. Here, open your mouth and tilt back your head." Gold pours the contents of a vial into the serpent's maw.
The creature bellows. "Oh that's awful stuff. Tastes like my wife's beef stew." He shudders and glows, his features slowly unform and reform, and after several tense minutes the serpent is gone, replaced by a man. A naked man, the Golds learn as they drag him into the boat. Gold gives him his jacket but it doesn't salvage the man's modesty. "Conjure me some clothes. I'm freezing here!"
"I can't." Gold picks up his paddles and avoids looking at Gary–for more reasons than one. "No magic. All I had was that potion I made years ago."
"No magic? What do you mean? You're Rumplestiltskin, the most powerful sorcerer in all the lands."
"Not any more. Look, I'll row you ashore and Belle can run into town with my AmEx and buy you some clothes."
"And shoes." Gary swings around to face Belle, but she blushes and pretends to study her fingernails. Though Gold does catch her sneaking one little peak. "Size 11BB. I'm hard to fit but if you can't find the right size, forget it. I don't want to develop bunions."
"I'm sorry I can't get you back to your wife," Gold says sincerely.
"Never mind. She took size 10EE. Besides, she couldn't cook worth spit. Maybe you could drop me off that tavern on the hill. There's a barmaid I've been watching."
Gold rolls his eyes and Belle sneaks another peek.
That, he promises, was his last involvement of any kind with magic. Belle says it was completely understandable, a noble act of recompense. They do all the touristy things in Scotland, they chat with the locals (Belle chats, he nods), they buy trinkets to send home to "the kids" (Gold chuckles when Belle refers to Bae and Emma as "the kids").
In pubs they listen to songs about selkies and poems about kelpies. Rather, Belle listens; Gold yaks about football.
Everywhere they go, he has the sense he's being followed. Not by a who but a what: magic. He shrugs the phantom off. After close to four hundred years as a practitioner, he should expect to feel something, the same way people who've lost a limb do.
In London pubs it's Merlin and football. In Ireland, elves and football. In Sidney, it's The Dreamtime and football. The Golds sample the music, the stories, the plays, the food and the art of every country they visit, and somewhere in all of it there's a hint of magic. Ridiculous. Why do people spend so much time on something that doesn't exist in their world, something they can't have? He plugs his ears to these stories. Archie tells him that alcoholics should stay out of pubs and magic addicts should stay out of fantastical conversations. Thank the gods for football.
"–unemployment rate in Storybrooke rose to 7.2 percent this month. On a related note, the library is hosting a series of job readiness workshops, beginning Monday with 'Networking 101'"–
Gold interrupts the broadcast of GMS playing on his Ipad. "That's the last skill Storybrookers need. Everybody's already connected by blood or marriage to everyone else."
"Not funny, Rumple." Belle nudges him with her bare foot. "Those are our friends losing their jobs."
"The City Council needs to set up a business development office. The trouble is, under the curse, nothing changed, so now that we–they–need development, no one in Storybrooke knows how. They need to bring in a consultant to develop a plan."
"That sounds like a good idea. Are you going to introduce it?"
Gold snorts. "Who, me? Even though they'd know I'm right, none of them would listen. But your father's the current president of the Chamber of Commerce, right?"
"It was his turn. They go in reverse alphabetical order and you were the last one, remember?"
Gold grins nastily. "Oh yeah. . . I forgot because I never held a meeting. Loan me your Surface?" He opens his Gmail account. "Okay, it's time to see if I've earned any cache with your father in the eight months, three weeks and two days we've been married. What's his email address?"
"What else? Gameofthorns at Yahoo. Eight months, three weeks and–how many days?"
"Two." Gold's two forefingers jab furiously at the keyboard.
"All that time," Belle hums. "Where's my eighth month anniversary present?"
"Right here." He points to the salutation he's just typed. "I'm helping your father save his business, free of charge. Does he go by 'Moe' or ''Maurice'?"
"That's a pretty good present. Moe."
"'And in today's Gold Standard Report: Gold goes gold, as Belle and Rum tour Versailles!'"
Gold's head snaps up. "'Rum'?! Who the hell gave her permission to call me 'Rum'?"
"They're just trying to make you sound. . .accessible. Easy-going." Belle pets his floof soothingly. "But you're right, dear; she went too far. Not even I call you 'Rum.'"
"Please don't start." He resumes his typing.
"–grandson Henry tells us that upon entering the Hall of Mirrors, Rum quipped, 'Quick, cover them before Regina catches us!' The couple–'"
"I did not," Gold complains.
"I remember what you said." Belle toys with the shell of his ear. "You said in our new house, you would build me a dressing room of mirrors, so that I could see how beautiful I am when I'm undressing."
"And in the bathroom and the bedroom–mmmm." He closes his eyes briefly. "Sweetheart, how do you expect me to write a letter to your father when you've got my mind under your clothes?"
"Just tell him you're being a dutiful husband and commemorating your eighth-month, two-week, whatever, anniversary." She unbuttons his shirt. "Or just say we're newlyweds in Paris, doing what all newlyweds do in Paris."
"'Next stop for Rumbelle: yodeling and wooden shoes!"
"They didn't even get their stereotypes straight," Belle grumbles.
"'Rumbelle'!?"
"'Yodeling'? Huh! Now there's something we haven't tried."
"Sweetheart, you were yodeling like an alpinist last night, or have you forgotten?"
Belle exchanges email addresses all around Europe: "If you ever come to Maine. . . ." She draws the entire world in toward her, making it cozy and warm like one big B & B. Gold becomes an encyclopedia of information about soccer teams and fishing all around the planet. He never becomes comfortable talking to strangers the way Belle does, but with those two topics he can always start a conversation.
He gets indigestion, heartburn, heat rash, blisters everywhere they go. But when they tuck in at night–a pension in Barcelona, a four-star hotel in Shanghai, a treelodge in Zululand, a sublet in Sidney, a capsule in Tokyo–he doesn't mind at all because they talk for hours and they sleep well.
In most of their travels, it's all for her. She chooses the destination, the activities, the accommodations; this is her dream they're living and he's proud to give it to her. They check off every item on her bucket list: snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, zip-lining in New Zealand, riding camels to the pyramids; watching Noh theater, the Moscow Ballet, King Lear at the Globe, Diwali fireworks in MumbI; kissing the blarney stone, bicycling the south of France. Belle sends photos and videos to Henry; he sells them to GMS and Youtubes the broadcasts back to them.
Every Sunday they Skype with Bae or Emma or Dove, who reports on the progress of the new house. Dove inspects it weekly, enjoying the escape from Storybrooke, which has entered an economic and emotional slump. He says his blood pressure drops ten points the minute he crosses that orange town line.
Emma reports, her mouth twisting down, that the town has invested heavily in a tourism campaign. "'Storybrooke: Feel the Magic.' We paid fifty grand to a Boston ad agency for that campaign. All the shops along Main Street got repainted: bubblegum pink and baby blue and sunshine. It's too cute for words. And a waste: no one's come."
"Probably for the best," Gold mutters. "If any tourists spent too much time hanging around, they might learn something they shouldn't. "
"On the bright side," Bae says, "Treadle's invested in three new businesses. Three families are now earning above the poverty line. But it's still rough. Amy's Ice Cream went out of business. The bank foreclosed on the Zimmerman house. The Rabbit Hole is watering down its drinks and they've got a strip show on Saturdays."
"Oh gods, not Amy's. . . ."
In September it's Gold's turn to check off the one item on his bucket list: a visit to the Shaolin Temple in Dengfeng, China. He's disappointed in the commercialism and the tourist overcrowding, but he is impressed with the students' martial arts demonstration. It isn't the spiritual experience he's seeking, however, so he makes inquiries and arranges a weekend stay at the Bailin Zen Monastery, and that experience comes closer to what he's hoping for as he and Belle are taught meditation and prayer.
"Why is it so hard for me?" he asks a monk as he struggles to enter a meditative state. "It comes so easily for Belle."
The monk taps his damaged ankle. "Her soul and her nature are one. Your soul runs from its nature."
"I have to."
The monk shakes his head. "Power doesn't bend men; men bend themselves for the sake of power. Learn that and you can stop running."
Through their travels, he and Belle must depend upon strangers for guidance and interpretation. In the early months, he finds this frustrating, and several times when they're alone in whatever quarters they will sleep in for the night, he whacks his cane and curses. This dependence, which doesn't faze Belle, makes him feel powerless. He fights the longing to have his magic back so that he won't be vulnerable to thieves and fools. The visit to Bailin is a turning point, as he is now able to calm himself.
And, he must admit, his money helps. The Centurion card speaks when he doesn't know the language. Probably, that's cheating, and cheating is evil, but he is more aware now than ever before of his physical limitations, and the money goes a long way to compensate. If that means he's still a bit of a villain, so be it. He is who he is.
In Peru, Belle comes back from her Inca Trail trek a conquering hero. He feels just a little left out, but there's no way his ankle could have tolerated that hike, one of the most challenging in the world. He pushes his bitterness down and yanks his pride in her up. When she relates to him the tales she picked up on the hike, of shamans and curanderos and Ayahuasca ceremonies, he shuts the stories out at first; he wants nothing to do with practices that can only be based on deception and fantasy. There is no magic in this world. Period.
But there are herbs that can take pain away, plants that can cure infection and mend injuries. Nothing magical about them; just chemistry. Belle wrangles an invitation for him to study for a month at a shamanic retreat in Lima in exchange for teaching the other healers some of what he's learned about North American medicinal plants. Belle, meanwhile, hikes the Shaski Trail, takes parasailing lessons, strolls the Mujica Gallo and takes cooking classes at SkyKitchen.
The curanderos kick him out the first day when he flatly denies the existence of magic in this world (he makes no statement concerning its presence in other worlds), but on the way out, as he passes by a shaman who's pulverizing some dried leaves in a bowl, he clicks his tongue. "You're wasting half their healing power."
The shaman grunts, "Que?"
Gold's translator, a pre-med major studying at Ceytano Heredia University, rolls his eyes. "Don't criticize, Mr. Gold. Shamans have been studying at this healing center for almost two hundred years."
"Only two? Translate, Arcani, that's what I'm paying you for. Let me worry about my manners. Tell him that leaf there, the one that's shaped like an eye, don't dry it. Press the juice from about forty of them, then mix the juice with just a dropperful of pisco and two quarts of distilled water—no less than two quarts, because it's powerful stuff. Then drink a cupful neat at room temperature. Eat a slice of bread immediately afterward to avoid an upset stomach. And that, dearies, is how you make a cure for intestinal parasites, which is what our shaman friend here has."
Arcani translates faithfully, but with his feet edging toward the exit. Through the entire prescription, the shaman stares coldly at Gold. When Arcani concludes (and hangs his head with a shamed sigh), the shaman stands, wiggles a finger at Gold and walks from the room.
"He wants you to follow," Arcani explains, unnecessarily. Gold has already trailed after the shaman. They end up in a greenhouse, with the two old men arguing by shouting in their native languages (for Gold, a long-dead language from the Frontlands) shaking their heads vehemently and jabbing fingers at various plants. Arcani is still embarrassed at first, but soon enough, he gets involved in the discussion; he's learning in one afternoon what would take him half a semester in med school. When the evening dinner bell rings, the shaman laughs, slaps Gold on the back and pronounces, "Bueno."
Gold wonders if it's dinner or himself that's bueno. He doesn't ask though; something in him says it's bad luck for a villain to be called good. He does smile at the thought of what the shaman might say if he knew his new teacher is the Dark One.