“You asked us before if there were any important dates or rituals our family practiced,” Helga said, controlling her tears. “Of course, we have some. An old family like ours – a proud family like ours – we carry some of the rituals our distance fae ancestors practiced.”
Okay. That sounded promising. Willow leaned forward, and with an encouraging nod from Umber, she said, “That sounds exactly like what we wish to know. I am here, after all, to see that justice is done for your son. We’ve unlocked one piece of the puzzle. With what you can tell us here, we’ll be able to complete the puzzle and find him.”
“Yes, yes,” Helga said, reaching out an impulsive hand to Willow, who took it. She tried not to act surprised, instead mustering as much warmth as possible in her smile. “We’ll tell you.”
“Don’t forget the other possibility,” Umber growled. “He may even be alive. There are no promises, naturally. Only that we must search, and we must do our duty.”
“Imagine,” Alfred said icily, “if you had done your duty before. We wouldn’t be in this position now.”
Willow nodded solemnly. “Mistakes were made. Now, we must make amends and do what’s right.”
Judging by Umber’s approving nod, Willow felt she must be doing something right. Polite, friendly, and a soft but lower voice to add assurance. Everything possible, in other words, to try to produce a welcome outcome.
“One ritual we practice is our Sunday ritual. We bake bread and give thanks to our great fae ancestor and add cumin in the bread because it is their favored spice.”
This… did not sound like what they needed. Still, Willow smiled as they started describing all sorts of inane, superstitious rituals, from leaving food for the wild fae, praying to some random pewter statue, making sure to clap their hands when they sneezed to leaving a boot by the chimney to capture spirits… nothing exactly noteworthy. Honestly, the family sounded crazy, like some backwater farmers who believed in every conspiracy theory under the sun.
At least until Helga finally started talking about moon rituals.
“There’s the new moon ritual we do, don’t we, darling – where we cast a piece of silver into the stream so that the fae of the waters know to leave us alone. And then the full moon ritual, of course, where we recite the name of the moon and pray for Brumous Draíochta, ancient words for a beautiful night passed down from our ancestors.” She started rattling off another prayer, but Professor Umber interrupted her.
“You do this every full moon? Does anything happen when you do?”
“Why, of course! A beautiful night with the moon at its fullest!”
“And that’s it?” he asked while Willow very slowly fished her cell phone out from under the table.
“Yes!” Helga said, apparently oblivious to the interest.
“How do you spell the words?”
“Oh, we don’t know. We just say them.”
Helpful. Willow suppressed the urge to scowl before asking them to repeat them once more with her recorder on.
They then both had to sit there and listen to even more stupid rituals, which also left Willow wondering if the couple had any time for normal things or if their entire day was one long list of rituals.
Professor Umber did a great show of checking the time before thanking them for their “extraordinarily helpful” discussion and said he hoped they would soon be able to return with good news.
They left the parents, who smiled and babbled to each other and stomped out into the fading daylight of what felt like a wasted Saturday.
“That was so freaking boring,” Willow said. “What’s with that family? Why do they do all this weird crap?”
“Some of the ones who deeply revere their fae blood hold a great number of superstitions,” Umber said in a rather gloomy tone. “There is some logic to it. Fae love superstitions and rituals – it’s one way to ground their presence in the mortal realm better. But it does mean some unusual habits form because of their beliefs.”
Willow was glad that her family, even when giving thanks to their ancestors, never had an impulse to practice weird rituals.
A blessing in disguise.
Professor Umber listened to the recording with her. “One word sounds like brumous.” He spelled it out, and she dutifully tapped it in. He read the definition of the term from a book: “A noun which relates to winter or sunless weather – and may refer to gray skies filled with heavy clouds or fog.
“Okay, so I think we have a fog-summoning ritual here, which, perhaps, when invoked in a specific location, can draw the fae realm closer. I don’t know the first word, but it sounds vaguely Irish.”
Willow tried a few searches until they discovered a word that seemed to match it.
“Referring to the secret lore and arts of the druids. A magic charm, an enchantment. Enchantment!” Willow squeaked. “Oh, this really sounds like it matches!”
“Well, it’s certainly intriguing, but there’s only one way to really test it. It’s November 18th now. When’s the next full moon, and what’s its name?”