Magical Meanderings

By Irene Radford

What happens when rival pirate queens take tea together? From the fertile imagination of Irene Radford, author of the classic Dragon Nimbus Series, and the epic Merlin's Descendants Series, come sixteen stories of hope, fun, and poignant sorrow. Fire-breathing hummingbirds, a tavern between humanity and hell, crystal stealing pixies in space, and more, gathered together for the first time in Magical Meanderings.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bookview Cafe
• Release date: Aug 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781611389081

Irene Radford

Irene Radford has been writing stories ever since she figured out what a pencil was for. A member of an endangered species—a native Oregonian who lives in Oregon—she and her husband make their home in Welches, Oregon where deer, bears, coyotes, hawks, owls, and woodpeckers feed regularly on their back deck. A museum trained historian, Irene has spent many hours prowling pioneer cemeteries deepening her connections to the past. Raised in a military family she grew up all over the US and learned early on that books are friends that don’t get left behind with a move. Her interests and reading range from ancient history, to spiritual meditations, to space stations, and a whole lot in between. Mostly Irene writes fantasy and historical fantasy including the best-selling Dragon Nimbus Series. In other lifetimes she writes urban fantasy as P.R. Frost and space opera as C.F. Bentley.

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MAGICAL MEANDERINGS:

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

HUMMING ALONG © 2019 by Irene Radford, Whimsical Beasts, a Campcon Anthology, edited by Joyce Reynolds-Ward, Knotted Road Press

ILLEGAL CITIZENS © 2017 by Irene Radford, More Alternative Truths edited by Lou Berger, Rebecca McFarland Kyle, Phyllis Irene Radford, and Bob Brown, B-Cubed Press

THE NATURAL ORDER © 2017 by Irene Radford, Children of a Different Sky, edited by Alma Alexander, KOS Books

LITTLE MISS STEAM ENGINE © 2015 by Irene Radford, Tales from an Alien Campfire, edited by Phyllis Irene Radford, Knotted Road Press

FOREST LAW, WILD AND TRUE © 2018 by Rachel Atwood, Second Round, A Return to the Ur Bar, edited by Patricia Bray and Joshua Palmatier, Zombies Need Brains.

PIXIE CRYSTALS © 2016 Wee Folk and Strange, edited by Debbi Evans, Skywarrior Books

HOT TIME IN THE CROP CIRCLES TONIGHT © 2017, Irene Radford and Bob Brown, Steam and Dragons, edited by Leah Cutter, Knotted Road Press

THE ORANGE MUSKRAT © 2017 Bob Brown and Irene Radford, Steam and Dragons, edited by Leah Cutter, Knotted Road Press

PAVE PARADISE © 2016 Amazon KDP

FORGIVENESS © 2016 Irene Radford and Bob Brown, Amazon KDP reprint Alternative Theologies © 2018 B-Cubed Press.

PIRATE TEA © 2016 Alternateas, edited by ElizaBeth Gilligan, Skywarrior Books

DANCING BANGLES ©2018 by Irene Radford, It Happened At The Ball, edited by Sherwood Smith, Bookview Cafe

GARBAGE IN, MONSTERS OUT © 2017 Debris and Detritus, the lesser Greek Gods running amok, edited by Patricia Burroughs

ROOMBA VS OUIJA © 2020 by Irene Radford, Magical Meanderings,

SNIFF FOR YOUR LIFE © 2016 by Irene Radford, Were, edited by Patricia Bray and Joshua Palmatier.

DEN OF INIQUITY © 2015 How Beer Saved the World #2, edited by Phyllis Irene Radford, Skywarrior Books. Reprinted 2017 Nevertheless She Persisted, edited by Mindy Klasky, Bookview Café.

This story was inspired by the daily battle that takes place on my back deck. Unfortunately we have to pull the bird feeders in early May when the bears wake up, hungrier than any dragon.

HUMMING ALONG

Irene Radford

Get out! Out, out, out. Get away from my territory! I shout at the arrogant goldfinch. I dive at him from above, veering away at the last second. Then I swoop around him, turning a tight circle. The wind generated by my wings ruffles a few feathers on his back.

He blinks at me and returns to nibbling his tiny yellow seeds. His claws clench the edge of the plastic feeder in a grip that would withstand a hurricane.

He doesn’t even open his wings a trifle to reaffirm his balance.

I open my beak to spit fire at the invader.

Alas, my belly no longer turns my belches to flame. Instead my whip-like tongue waggles at him.

I return to a nearby branch and chirp my litany of woe.

A female flutters past. Her green feathers sparkle in the sunlight. She’s ready and eager to mate.

I have lost interest. I should mate with the golden queen of the dragons, not a pitiful hummingbird.

She flutters her tail at me and drops to the array of feeders to sip daintily at the fake yellow flower on the red plastic.

I easily glide to drop down beside her. Politely, I sip from a flower opposite her.

Bah! Sugar syrup. It is too sweet. It does not ease my hunger or quench my thirst. I should drink hot blood from my newly killed prey. I should feast on the meat I cook with my flaming breath.

My human slaves should fall down on their knees and worship me, giving me the last of their wealth in gratitude for sparing their lives.

No. They do not recognize my majesty, my power, my fierce anger. Instead they feed me sugar water dyed red with chemicals and force me to share my territory with ordinary birds. They too might be descended from monstrous dinosaurs, but they are lesser get. I am the child of a tyrannosaurus rex, the king of all beasts, the dragon of his time.

I am the dragon of this garden and I will reclaim it from those greedy kinglets who descend by the dozen to gobble all the seeds, even the big, black sunflower droppings. Nasty, nasty, nasty. Nasty birds and nastier seeds.

Leave them for the jays, I screech at them. Jays are the only birds nastier than a greedy kinglet. Dumber than dirt, they are. One sees his reflection in the glass door and thinks it is a rival from a different flock. He plunges into the glass and knocks himself senseless. The lesser males follow his example, determined to take his place as leader and defender of the flock.

They all fall, one after another, too stupid to make the connection between the glass and the pile of dead, or nearly dead birds, on the stained and varnished cedar planks. Their females continue to gobble the seeds. With the males having committed ritual suicide, there are more seeds for them.

I take another sip of the nasty flavored syrup. It doesn’t taste so bad this time. I’ll drink the whole jug of it if the little green female with the iridescent breast comes back and shakes her tail at me.

Think of the younglings she’ll produce, fierce, dynamic, and worthy of worship.

I decide I must demonstrate my prowess before her. So I dive into the mix of female kinglets. They rise in an angry flutter, jabbering at me in their broken patois. I remove myself to my perch and preen, singing tales of my ferocity that will be handed down from father to son for generations. All the dragons of the world will know of me!

A roaring sound akin to the sound of dragons flying into battle forces all of the kinglets, the juncos, and the finches to scatter to the four winds. As they should.

But I, I the king of dragons, hold my perch and reply with several clacks of my beak. My tongue flickers out to taste the air and know the name of the enemy that leads this phalanx of dragons.

Hey, Big Red, what are you up to today? a human female coos at me.

Blasphemy!

The roaring sound was merely her opening the heavy glass door. Bah! Good thing I kept my perch. She does not frighten me.

Incensed by the witch’s audacity I dive toward her, swooping away from her grasping hand at the last moment. Leave my territory. Leave it now, and never come back! I screech at her.

Her reply is to remove the source of my nourishment from its hook and return it to the interior of her cave. Now, now, Red, I’ll bring it back as soon as I clean and refill it. I won’t let you starve.

Free me from your traps and I will fend for myself. I will kill my prey and drink their blood. Then I will feast on their raw flesh. You will bow down and worship me.

Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before. The roar comes again and the glass partition between her cave and my porch closes. I know its tricks and refuse the challenge to knock myself senseless by following her.

I flit off to another source of food to sate my hunger. The tall flower stalks with red and gold blossoms fixed tightly to the stem taste wonderful. But I must feed quickly and retreat for these flowers belong to another dominant male, a mere hummingbird who shouldn’t be able to challenge me. But he thinks he’s a dragon. I know he is only a tiny bird and I am the real dragon, but I leave him with his illusions intact.

The deck next door pulls me back. Since the witch transformed me, I cannot go far away from her buffet of sunflower seeds and sugar water. One taste of the neighboring flowers tells me that the witch’s food is not enough. I’m going to starve to death. There is less of me today than yesterday. I need real food, and she is not giving it to me. And she chains me to her.

Hey, Big Red, here’s fresh food for you. The witch calls me back.

I take one last fortifying sip from the tall flower spikes and wing my way back to my gaoler. But I am smarter than she is. I fly high and dive down, roaring at her. My elongated beak pierces her hand where she holds the red feeder. I draw blood. Sweet, satisfying, nurturing blood. I suck it up greedily.

Nasty little creature! The witch swats me away.

I wouldn’t have to suck your blood if you’d plant real flowers and offer me food with real nutrients! I screech back at her. My words come out as chirps, but I know she can understand me. She is a witch after all.

Watch your mouth, squirt or I’ll put fake sugar into this feeder, and you’ll be dead before morning. You’ll starve to death in minutes.

You wouldn’t! I swoop around and plunge at her again, aiming for her eyes. Her eyes are the source of her magic.

Think about all the meals I missed because you roasted my entire garden, she sneers at me as she ducks away. You cooked all of my squash and ruined my tomatoes, leaving them to rot just so you could have steamed corn with your dinner. You’ll starve just like I nearly did.

But… but I’m a dragon! It’s my job to set fire to my dinner before I eat.

But not mine too.

Oh.

The other birds fly away, not interested in becoming a part of this dispute.

Nasty dragon, she humphs and retreats toward the sliding door that roars.

I’m sorry, I call after her. I am a selfish and territorial dragon. For once I know that my pride is not as important as my belly. If she demands humility and apologies, then I must give them, or starve.

You’re sorry?

I perch on the wooden railing of her deck and duck my head. Then I hear the hum of other wings coming to check out the replenished feeder. I resist the urge to chase away the intruders. If I had any hope of surviving this witch’s tortures I have to appear humble. Tomorrow I will chase away all other creatures.

Tomorrow.

Oh, all right. I can’t make you a dragon again, but I can provide for you. Look what I bought you. She hauls out of her dwelling a big pot filled with drooping red and purple flowers.

Ambrosia!

You love me, I flap my wings until they hum a contented tune. My beak finds an open flower and I sip long and hard. I feel my chest swelling with emotions I’m not used to feeling.

I flit to another blossom and drink again. My wings have to strain to keep me aloft. I need more food. A third, fourth, and fifth flower strengthen my wings.

But the pollen is beginning to taste strange, no longer sweet, not yet as sharp as blood.

Oh, you silly bird, the fuchsia is turning you back into a dragon, a beautiful red jewel of a pocket dragon.

I look at my reflection in the glass door. I am indeed a fierce dragon with a wide snout, sinuous neck, single wings, long barbed tail. And my scales, real scales, not feathers. My scales glow with the inner light of true rubies basking in the fading sun.

I am a dragon again! I suspect that the drop of her blood I sipped brought me back, not the flower pollen.

But you are still barely bigger than my hand, so watch yourself. No more flaming my garden.

But I can drink the blood of mice and squirrels and other creatures that steal food from your garden, and I get to eat any corn I can harvest, if I don’t touch the rest of the food you grow?

Okay. Peace?

I spit a tendril of flame and caress her cheek with the tip of my barbed wing. Then I lick a drop of blood from her cheek.

A dragon I will always be!

B-Cubed Press was founded on political satire in 2017 right after the 2017 inauguration. Alternative Truths and More Alternative Truths both hit Amazon bestseller lists. This story came from the second anthology that examined campaign promises and the first year of executive orders. So far, it is the only story I have written with no Science Fiction or Fantasy elements.

ILLEGAL CITIZENS

Irene Radford

Once in her life Mariposa Santiago del Santa Cruz might have tried not to breathe too deeply of the smoke-infused air. Who was she kidding? She would never have come to a place like this. The days when people cared about such things in a place like this were long gone. The place reeked of cheap tobacco and better than backyard pot. She pushed her back against the wall, and let her eyes adjust. She found him quickly. A tall Anglo in a slick suit and a too wide tie, out of style so long ago it risked coming back in again, except maybe for the salsa stains, or what she hoped were salsa stains on the tie tip and the cuffs. Nordic blond hair and gleaming teeth should have marked him as an outsider in this neighborhood, but the easy smile and casual way he filled his space said he belonged. Nicknamed The Viking, he was her contact. Everyone else in the bar was too dark skinned. Too short. And like her, too Mexican.

With a deep breath that threatened to turn her resolve into a coughing fit, she picked her way between wobbling tables and cat calls. "Hey chica, come have a drink with me. Hola, chica, you need a real man tonight."

She hadn’t appreciated that kind of attention even when she was young enough to deserve it. Here age didn’t matter so much as willingness. With long practice, she ignored them all. Only the Viking mattered now.

She stopped a scant foot away, she could tell he sensed her as he turned. His eyes paused where she presumed his hands wanted to. She felt all of the grime of the last three days vanish as the oozing leer made her feel truly sullied. She wore an old sundress straight out of Paris. Six weeks ago the dress had been pristine clean and fit too snugly in places. It sagged on her now, was ripped and dirty. The dress matched the old sneakers she wore when gardening and now protected her feet from the ick on the floor and the broken glass on the sidewalk.

The Viking must have recognized her desperation and gestured toward the other side of his booth. The two men sitting there caught his eye. Then, beers in hand, they nodded and left. She watched him catch the eye of man at the bar and a nod brought two cold beers their way.

He sat silent until the bottles were slid onto the table. She didn’t hesitate to grip the cold wet glass. She resisted the impulse to pull it across her forehead.

You look like a woman who would like to take a trip, he said in English.

How much? Mariposa asked, sitting across from him in the only booth with intact plastic upholstery.

"Where do you want to go, chica?" He pulled on his beer. "I hear Spain is fine this time of year."

Mariposa gulped. Dared she speak out loud? Her mouth went dry with fear. Fear no worse than she’d experienced every day for the last three years. More intensely the last six weeks during her flight from home to safety. Nowhere is safe from him!

I need to get across the border.

"Now that gets expensive, chica. He smiled. It is not so easy as it once was."

I can afford it.

He looked again, this time the leer was replaced with calculation. When he looked this time, he wasn’t looking under the dress, but at it. He smirked.

You might have afforded it before. But now? the Viking shrugged.

I have to.

Twenty-five G’s, cash. Up front.

What makes you think I have that kind of cash?

Someone recommended me. Someone helped you along the way from… there to here. Anyone who knows my work knows my rates. You want over the wall. That’s expensive. And illegal. You have to make it worth the bribes. And there is risk.

I’ll give you ten in cash now. Another five when you get me to safety.

Twenty up front. His jaw firmed, but his eyes wavered. Even accomplished liars rarely succeeded with her.

She knew that if she gave him enough up front, she’d never make it over the wall. She might not even make it to the end of the block.

Five up front. Fifteen when I am safely on the other side and out of rifle range from the guards on the wall.

You’ll need to give up your ID and your passport. Your real ID, not the fake ones you’ve probably been using.

Every official she’d encountered for three years had demanded the same thing, but for different reasons.

Why, so you can re-sell them?

"Won’t do anyone much good to travel on your ID. He jerked his head toward the TV screen over the bar. The scene shifted from a soccer game to a news alert. A bad black and white photo of Mariposa’s face—younger and plumper than now, straight off her campaign posters—was featured dead center on the screen with her name scrolling beneath it. Wanted" flashed on and off, again and again in an urgent cadence above her serene and trustworthy face. Now, off the campaign trail she looked perpetually angry. Or frightened.

No crime was listed. No reward either. Fear alone was enough to end her life. No looks came her direction. Had they, she would be done for. The area would be