6.14 The Pooka’s Wife
We had three choices for dinner, none of which sounded all that great since my stomach was full of what I’d eaten in the Delta Clubhouse, but I figured I’d probably be hungry later, so I chose the chicken meal. It had green beans and rice, plus an apple tart. I chose that selection based on the apple tart. I guess I’d worry about dieting once we reached our destination, although I’d heard that most people gained ten pounds or more on their cruises. As to drinks, I was tempted by the prune juice, which every Star Trek fan knows is the drink of choice for Klingons, but, joking aside, Timothy was right that water seemed the best bet. I’d heard that diet cola is the stewards’ least favorite drink order because it was impossible to pour without waiting for the bubbles to calm down. I’d also read that carbonated beverages were bad for stomachs in flight. All that bobbing around on a plane was equivalent to the “volcano” that kids made for their science project using vinegar and baking soda. That was an explosion I wouldn’t want to have while flying. After my decisions about my drink and dinner had been made, it was time for lift off. I’d been aware while pondering my choices that we were moving forward (having tried to ignore the fact that we were speeding down the runway with the plane’s motors doing their high volume roar,) so I was about to close my eyes and shut out what was happening, except I couldn’t. I needed to see. If you removed the worry about airplane crashes at one of the two most dangerous moments of the flight, it was rather interesting to watch a departure. Despite the fact that pressure was securing me more tightly to my seat, the view from the plane’s window actually looked like the ground was leaving us behind and not the opposite. As we pushed upwards, the airport seemed to run away, the road beneath us fled, and the ocean itself hid under our shadow. I thought about all the whales, dolphins, and seals, not to mention the birds and beneath the waves the fish, who were probably either accustomed to huge objects passing over them or unaware of us. Did they ever look up and wonder about the immensity of the bird flying over them?
6.13 The Pooka’s Wife
The seats were lush and comfortable. We had a care kit, a blanket, and pillow. The moment I was buckled in, I began inspecting the little pouch they’d given me: an eye mask, ear plugs, a toothbrush and the cutest miniature tube of toothpaste. Timothy didn’t even inspect his kit. He said I could have his, too, but why would I want two kits? I took his, just in case. The airplane was stuffy and hot inside. It was also making all the noises that the San Diego planes had made: the air flaps shifting up and down, the racing motors that sounded like teen drivers daring each other to be first on the drag strip, and the undercarriage that reminded me of a very hungry robot, complaining about its boring diet of oil. “Penelope, do you want a sleeping pill?” Terry said, leaning forward from the seat behind me. “No, she doesn’t,” Timothy growled. “We haven’t even lifted up yet.” I placed my hand over his, reminding him to be nice. “Sorry,” my husband said, but whether that apology was for me or for Terry, Timothy didn’t say. A flight attendant stood up in the front and gave a lecture about exits and seat belts. I didn’t pay much attention this time. I knew it was just a regulation the stews had to go through with the passengers and not a forewarning of problems, at least, I hoped it didn’t predict something horrible. I leaned back against my seat and thought about whether I wanted that sleeping pill that Terry had offered. A pill that put me to sleep would remove all my qualms, but I’d miss any emergency directions, if something bad happened. A pill would probably also make me groggy the next day, too. I wanted to see Fort Lauderdale. I wanted to be conscious every moment. “You might want to choose what you’d like for dinner,” Timothy said. “And the attendants will want your drink order once we lift up. Cranberry juice again?” he laughed low, his voice not mocking me, but instead sending signals throughout my body telling me I’d like to do certain bed acts that I assumed airlines frowned at. I wanted to ignore Timothy’s suggestion, just because I needed to curb his need to give dictatorial demands, but then that would be silly, right? I reached for the airline’s booklet and started scanning my choices.
6.12 The Pooka’s Wife
The quiet in the Club was appreciated, especially as it came after the drama of meeting a Faerie Queen in the middle of my wedding, as well, as a nice break coming before having to get on a scary as heck airplane. The trip to San Diego hadn’t actually been that bad, but it was a short trip. How long was a flight to Florida? “Our flight takes off around ten at night, Penelope. Then we’ll all go to sleep and wake up in the morning, and ,presto, we’ll be in sunny Florida.” “What time will we get there?” I asked, not sure how sleeping on a plane worked. “If the flight’s on schedule, about nine in the morning, just after we’ve been given a nice breakfast with coffee and orange juice,” Timothy said, smiling at me. “You’re not worried about flying are you?” Of course, I shook my head and denied such a thing. It might have worked to convince everyone if Bob hadn’t snorted loudly in disbelief. The guys all got up for dessert. I kind of wanted some of that soft serve ice cream, but the idea of eating anything more than I’d already had didn’t sit real well. Pancakes and omelets, plus ice cream? Even the coffee was curdling in my stomach. I watched the guys shoveling in the gooey and sweets they’d just gotten, but I remained firm about having eaten my full. Even the chocolate chip cookie that Timothy had brought me remained on its plate until Bob asked if he could have it and then gobbled it up. It must be nice to have a wolf constitution that enabled unlimited eating without its doing more than increasing his already bulging muscles. *** Since I was an experienced flyer now, as Timothy put it, I carried through with the boarding process with great aplomb. No worries over the passport and my ticket, no anxiety over a plane that seemed hidden behind a bunch of carboard walls, and no resentment when the stewardess openly flirted with Timothy. (I did lift up my hand and flash my ring a bit, but she probably didn’t notice, since her eyes were glued to his handsome features.)
6.11 The Pooka’s Wife
I already mentioned the comfortable chairs. Did I say the area was quiet as a library? People were kicked back, feet up on the coffee tables, reading newspapers and books, all of them, according to Timothy, calmly waiting for their flights. As we entered the rooms — yes, more than one room — we saw a huge buffet with silver capped dishes and platters of everything imaginable. Servers were supplying the empties with fresh, hot food. There was a section full of sliced meats, a different area with fish dishes, and every vegetable you could image, plus fancy breads and crackers with cheeses. Over at the end, there were salads, not just the green kind, but potato salad, carrot salad, macaroni salad, and salads I really couldn’t name. (Terry later praised the crab salad, but if you ask me that sounded icky.) Before grabbing a plate, Timothy and I, plus the others, had all done a tour of the offerings. We discovered a table full of caldrons of soups and stews. Another section held desserts, including soft serve ice cream. There was a beverage section with a choice of fruit juices or bottled drinks. Even champagne and wines were being offered! A chef stood ready to cook up omelets and offered to make pancakes or waffles for us. The most difficult thing was deciding what to eat! Timothy and I hadn’t done more than taste a few things at our wedding buffet. We’d only nibbled at the cake Clara and Sammy brought us, or was it Simone? My mind seemed rather hazy about such details. The guys started in on their selections, grabbing up plates as if they were starving. I passed the long lines of exotics and the platters of meat, potatoes, and salads, and headed for the chef where I put in a request for a cheese omelet with some pancakes on the side. When the white capped, uniformed man showed me the toppings provided for the pancakes (whipped cream, six different syrups, fresh fruits and compotes, and honey butter, there was no difficulty choosing. I am definitely a honey enthusiast. Timothy decided on lasagna and told me he was going to fill his plate with a variety of other goodies, but he first walked me to the area we’d claimed, sat me down beside Ben and Daniel, who’d already chosen their choices, although their plates seemed rather sparsely filled. Of course that didn’t really matter since I’d been told that this was the kind of place where there were unlimited go backs, and each time a person returned to the buffet, he or she received a shiny, clean plate. My omelet was delectable, but I had little room for the pancakes. Besides, when Bob came over and sat down with us, he reminded me that I’d be on a plane in a couple of hours and he didn’t want me to vomit on the seat in front of him. I didn’t know whether to throw something at Bob or thank him for the reminder. Not saying anything, I pretended to ignore him and took another bite. However, I decided that honeyed pancakes weren’t really that great of an idea for free flight eating, so I only took one more bite and quit. By the time Timothy came over with his heaping plate full of salad dressing running into his meaty lasagna, I’d already pushed my plate away and was limiting myself to drinking coffee.
6.10 The Pooka’s Wife
Daniel, the last member of our line-up, was escorted into a little room off to the side, where apparently a TSA agent hand-scanned him. Timothy said not to worry, that they often pulled someone over to do an ultra-intensive search, but I’d thought the TSA had been eying Daniel strangely, like they thought he was a terrorist or something equally horrid. When we were passing through the check point, I’d noticed that Daniel had taken off his necklace with assorted charms and feathers, and put it onto the moving inspection site. Daniel had even showed the agents, when asked, the card which gave him permission to wear such a thing since there were animal teeth and bird feathers on the necklace. (One feather, Daniel had told me earlier was a cast-off from a real Golden Eagle.) I guess the necklace might have made the agents suspicious of Daniel or perhaps it was the guarded look on his face or the way he carried himself like a secret agent (I had to admit that at first, I’d thought that Daniel looked kind of scary.) Anyway, in the end, Daniel came out with a smile on his face, which meant that we’d all passed our inspection in order to fly to Florida. On the other side of what Terry hissingly called “purgatory,” for which Bob gave him a pretend elbow in the ribs, Timothy headed us toward the Delta Sky Club. I had no idea what that meant. Was it a gym? Was it a place to play ping pong? When I asked, Timothy just snorted at my guesses, gave me a gentle smile, swung his arm around me, and said, “Wait ‘til you see it. You’ll be impressed.” We walked through an area where the seats were crammed with people, carry-on baggage, coats, and paper sack purchases. Someone had dropped their cola, and a big wet patch remained — part river, part sticky steps that led away from it. Candy wrappers and spilled popcorn were overflowing from a garbage can we passed, and a crying baby was perfuming the area with a pooped diaper. But the worst of it all was the noise level, like a stadium full of echoing voices. We kept walking forward and passed a woman’s restroom. I told Timothy I was ready to visit it, but my husband asked if I could wait a couple of minutes, so we continued our long, long hike through the halls of the terminal. Finally, we reached the Delta Sky Club. No ping pong tables, no gym, no overflowing crowds, but oh, my! It was like entering a bubble of peace where people sat about leisurely in dignified and comfortable arm chairs. The place was a library of quiet with the most incredible smells of food, the kind not salted, greased, or junk food guilt-making. If Terry was right about having passed through purgatory at the inspection site, I was pretty sure that we’d suddenly successfully made it into Heaven!
6.9 The Pooka’s Wife
We followed our suitcases to the check-in place where we got little claim stubs which Timothy stuck in his wallet. I had to show my passport, as did he. That was always a shaky thing since I was never sure if mine was legal or not. My name hadn’t been altered yet, so I was still flying under my maiden name, which Timothy growled over. “We’ll get that changed the moment we get to Paris,” he said. Did American Embassies do that kind of thing? The guys checked in their own bags, and then, like a herd of cows, we made our way through the TSA line. Of course, we were only flying to Florida. I guess the international document stuff came when we arrived at the cruise ship port. Still, I had to remove my new phone from my bag and lay down my jacket, the book I’d brought, and my purse on the assembly line inspection strip. Luckily, I didn’t have to take off my shoes. I was wearing a nice pair of chocolate brown trousers with a soft, long sleeved light blue blouse. My jacket was dark-brown denim and looked equally sharp, all thanks to Simone, of course. No jewelry, except the Queen’s gift, which by the way, didn’t show up on the body scan machine. How was that possible? Magic, I guess. It solved lots of problems. Terry was first in line, and the TSA agent made him take off his shoes. (In fact, all the men had to remove theirs. I guess their shoes were heavier and thick-soled or something.) Bob had orange socks on, which made me giggle. The others had normal black socks on. How boring. My eyes examined the men’s clothing as I waited, having been cleared by TSA without any problem (in spite of the necklace which I couldn’t take off.) No wonder I hadn’t noticed what everyone else was wearing with everything going on that day. Terry, standing beside me, having also been cleared by TSA, wore a pair of jeans and a black tee. Timothy, right behind me in line, had nice trousers on and a long-sleeved royal blue shirt, which made him look super handsome. Bob, Daniel, and Ben had copied Terry. None of them, including Timothy, carried jackets. The men would be cold inside the plane, I bet, remembering how the San Diego flight had felt like being strapped into a seat and made to sit inside the freezer section of a grocery store.
6.8 The Pooka’s Wife
So, my new husband had tricked me. We were scheduled to fly out of San Francisco Airport all the way to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, flight initials, FLL. That was pretty exciting to hear, actually. Mr. Grouchy chauffeur drove us right up to the Harvey Milk Terminal (“formerly called the South Terminal,” Bob whispered as if everyone couldn’t hear him.) Two guys were waiting for our arrival at the terminal. They hadn’t driven with us, but Timothy obviously expected them and gave them a quick Justin, Jose in greeting with a brief nod of recognition. (I figure that Terry knew them, too, because he clapped both of the guys on the back like they were good buddies of his.) Anyway, those guys, plus two more who had been waiting inside the terminal before joining us, gathered around and tried to give assistance for us limo passengers. (We were definitely not energetically jumping out of the limo. More descriptively, we slowly climbed out of the stretched limo, which might seem ridiculous after our comfortable ride, but it had been almost two hours of sitting in what Terry had called “light traffic”. The four brawny and very masculine men herded themselves almost immediately to the back of the limo so they could remove our luggage. Timothy, Bob, Terry, Ben, Daniel, and I hung around until they had hefted it all and were ready to wheel it into the terminal. (No, it wasn’t all mine. Timothy and I only had three, but the guys had one each. Still, that was a lot of suitcases.) Inside the airport, there were crowds everywhere. A couple of toddlers were crawling on the floor. A baby was screaming, an old woman was pushing her walker, assorted groupings of young families were nestled around their possessions, couples were hugging and smooching, two guys with casts on their legs and crutches were hobbling forward. I even got a peek at a calico cat in a bright pink carrier who was meowing frantically as it passed by us. Perhaps its terror was partly because passing right behind it, came two small dogs on leashes whose tongues were hanging so low they almost touched the ground. Frankly, the terminal was a mad house, and the noise was about the equivalent to the rock concert Cara had talked Sammy and me into attending.
6.7 The Pooka’s Wife
We passed the time in the limo learning more about Thunderbirds and Werewolves, or, at least, I did. I guess the others already knew about all that supernatural stuff. But I was like one of those cartoon characters, my ears growing larger as the information absorbed me with its flavors and enhancements. I asked questions, begged for more input, and tried to absorb this whole kingdom I’d never heard of before my time with Timothy. It was a lot to learn, and I still knew next to nothing about the Fae because Ben seemed the most unwilling of all of them to open that magical door. He avoided every question until Timothy suggested that I let that slice of the pie rest for another time. (Yes, I know that’s two metaphors put together that don’t match, but those were Timothy’s words, not mine.) After we’d ridden in the car for about an hour, I finally sat up, looked around, and wondered out loud exactly where we were going. Of course, I knew a cruise liner would be found at the ocean. Duh, but where precisely was the port located? Timothy fidgeted in his seat, avoided my eyes, and changed the subject several times, leading us down other paths. But eventually, when I kept returning to the question . . . I knew that something was up, that he was hiding something from me? But, what? “Timothy,” I growled, sounding exactly like Bob when he was riled up, except a couple of octaves higher. “You said we were going on a cruise, but where are we catching it, San Francisco . . . or San Diego?” Timothy sighed as if he’d really hoped to avoid the question longer, blinked once, then said, “Actually . . .” “Tell her fast. Penelope’s going to flip!” Bob laughed. He received a jarring elbow in the ribs from Terry, as Bob always did when he said something Terry figured wasn’t appropriate, but I was frankly glad that I wasn’t the only one smelling a rat. Timothy greeted Bob’s interjection with a semi evil look at Bob, followed by a bout of throat clearing, but then my husband (Love the sound of that!) kissed my forehead again and said, “I’m sorry, my darling. It’s not possible to sail from California to France. We have to first take another airplane flight. But you’re an experienced flyer now. This will be as easy as riding the old hobby horse, Molly. Remember that ride? You conquered your fear and had a good time.” I swallowed some water, dug down deep, and came up with a rather tepid smile. “Sure,” I said. “Piece of cake. How long a flight?”
6.6 The Pooka’s Wife
Daniel took up the bottle of water that Timothy had earlier passed around, opened it, and tipped it back, drinking in long, soundless gulps. Then he righted the bottle, recapped it and set it down in a water bottle slot on the door of the limo. Without preamble, the man, then, continued his tale. “We lived in villages at the top of the mountain. In that way, we could look down on the ancient world, on the children of the All Father, and at the animals below. The world was green then. The air smelled clear and sweet. It was a good life. “We were not a special people, my village clan. Some of us made war against our brothers. A few stole or lied. Some men were not good citizens. They did not share with those who needed sustenance and care. But there were some who lived in the old ways. Those people longed for the Spirit of Good.” “In that village and the others spread across our green lands, there was usually an old soul or two whose purpose was to hold the wisdoms of the past, to understand the secrets of nature, and to heal the sick. We, and I say, we, since I was one, were few. We were those chosen by the All Father himself. We were called the Thunderbirds by those we named us. We were the keepers of knowledge. We were shapeshifters. “Unlike your wolf friends here, we Thunderbirds were not bound to one form. We could hurl ourselves into the sky and soar as an eagle, a raven, or an owl. We could bellow and chew the grass, warmed and comfortable inside our thick bison coats. We were free to change our outer shell whenever we needed. The Navajo called us Skin-walkers. Other tribes had names like Kushtaka or Buffalo People. “But a name means nothing. It tells of the physical body that is visible to others. It says nothing of the power inside. A name is cast aside like the skin that holds our organs, our bones, and the blood that feeds those parts. But people like to gives names. Water. Car. Woman,” he said, with a graceful sway of a hand that motioned to me. “Your people called us Witch doctors or Medicine Men. We were that and more. But those days are gone. My people suffered. The sun went down. Now, that life is no more. Those of us left behind, we search for someone like your Pooka, a being with a generous spirit. He is a native son of the All Father, and I will serve him until the All Father, himself calls me to the other plane. I am fortunate he accepts my friendship.” My mouth had fallen open during Daniel’s story. It was a fairy tale, an enchantment, a chronicle of the past and of the present. How it involved Timothy, I wasn’t sure I yet understood, but I did grasp that Daniel was a very special person. He was someone I wanted to be near, to learn from, and to savor his knowledge. Unfortunately, like those super famous, I felt bowed in his presence and awed by his Power. I swallowed, grabbed at my facilities and squeaked out, “We are all fortunate to know Timothy,” I said. Then I chuckled under my breath because I felt silly praising my own husband, even though I really meant what I’d said. Timothy turned his head to look at me and dabbed a kiss on my forehead. You can praise me anytime. I enjoy it.
6.5 The Pooka’s Wife
“Daniel, my new wife is a very curious lady. She seems to be having trouble making out your kinship. Do you care to enlighten her?” Timothy said, giving me a warm smile. The stranger examined me a moment. “She is still human, but changing. Yes, I will explain my affiliation, since you wish it.” He glanced at Terry and Bob. I think the three of them were friends, but it was hard to tell. Daniel held himself a bit aloof from the others. Even Ben and he seemed to have a distance between them, which couldn’t be easy when the three other men were all sitting in the same limo. Bob, Terry, and Ben were all male specimens of the gorgeous sort. Women eyed them with interest and even lust. Daniel was equally handsome, but his reserve and the look in his eyes might be oft-setting for some. He probably blended well, not flashy or as muscle-bound as the wolves. Where Ben was eye candy, as Cara had put it, because of his perfect Faeness, Daniel gave off vibes that might prevent women from getting close. Why that was, I had no idea, but it was like a blinking red warning sign: Caution, keep your distance. I hoped the man was unaware of my thoughts. Whatever vibrations Daniel was sending out, I was sure that Timothy knew the man well enough not to be suspicious of his nature. It was just me feeling the shivery doubts over the emanations from his presence. Was that just because I didn’t know him? Was he a genuinely nice man? “Long ago in the Eastern Woodlands,” he began, his speech, the calm, deep and gentle voice of a true story teller. “When forests grew, birds sang freely, and people like yourself . . . ” He paused a moment, reflecting. People your color, but not like you. You are the color of flowers, the warmth of the sun. I feel reflection in your nature. You are a young soul, but one who learns. I feel the spirit in you, a blessing of kindness. You have not lived before, but your pureness is a beacon my people would see. It shines.” “Thank you,” I said, bowing my head. Was that appropriate? I didn’t know, but there was something in Daniel, a strength . . . a wisdom. His speech was measured, slow, and mesmerizing. I wanted to ask him to continue, but I knew to remain silent. For a moment he sat across from me on the leather seat next to the window, Ben, at his side. He watched me as if learning my nature, as if reading deep inside me, and while doing so, he remained as still as a boulder by a waterfall, one that absorbs the waterfall’s moisture, but seems impermeable to it. Daniel glanced again at Timothy, then at me. “Yes,” he said. “You, Penelope Caldwell, you blend, like the morning dew which seeps inside a cornflower. I see that you will drink of each other, and it will nurture you both. You are alike and yet, not. That is good.”