Midsummer Dance: Book III of the Troutespond Series

By Elizabeth Priest

Teb Nandi is having dreams about being an owl. Every time she wakes, she hears voices calling her name. Could this be goblins at work?  And then there’s the Piper telling her to stop complaining and do her job - easy to say when you’re not Goddess of the Hunt.

Prom night or Wild Hunt? Teb finds dealing with her consti

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luna Press Publishing
• Release date: Jul 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781911143468

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midsummer

dance

Book III of the Troutespond Series

Elizabeth Priest

Text Copyright © 2019 Elizabeth Priest

Cover Design 2019 Bede Rogerson

First published by Luna Press Publishing, Edinburgh, 2019

Midsummer Dance ©2019. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owners. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

www.lunapresspublishing.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-911143-46-8

"For Massa and Rebekah...

I cross my heart these characters aren’t based on you, but I’m glad you like them".

Maladjusted Goddess

I used to dream the same as anyone else. I would lay my head down on my pillow at night and after a few minutes I’d drift into an REM phase and the thought that I was outside on a sunny day chatting to a lime-green hippopotamus in the village centre seemed totally rational. That is a terrible example: I don’t think I have ever met an oversize, wrong-coloured creature of any description in my normal dreams, but it illustrates my purpose.

I dreamt fairly normally in the other sense as well. I liked the idea of having money and I had been good at science in school, so I wobbled between wanting to be a surgeon, a renowned psychologist, a biochemist and an astrophysicist who would swear to their dying day they had nothing to do with the Year Four science project with the sun proudly labelled as Mars that definitely was not sitting in a folder of old schoolwork under Tanya’s bed.

I wasn’t sure what it meant for my career as a botanist/astronaut/tenured researcher in the long run, but all my future dreams had taken a shunt to the side while I tried to work Pagan Goddess into my outdated life plans.

As for my present dreams...

I was an owl. Of course, since it was me, it wasn’t going to be any old owl; if I was anything like as special as I thought I was then my spirit beastie would have to be the best there had ever been as well. So it was some sort of oversized, strangely coloured dream animal.

Owls are the best predators because they fly silently, look sleek because of it, and have extra super senses. Owls have dignity on top of razor-sharp talons and beak, while the hawks and eagles others idolise as birds of prey just look like overgrown scruffy pigeons in my opinion. I have been utterly in love with owls since watching David Attenborough documentaries while sick off school as a kid. Sure, the man loves every animal equally, but the delight in his voice as he described them just stuck with me.

The bird I dreamt myself into night after night was long and shining, a glossy bullet whizzing through the sky. It was more bird of paradise than bird of prey, with the fantastic gold-flecked purple in the puffy feathers streaming out its silent gold wings. Its tail was a bouquet of purple plumes, following it like ribbons on a kite, silent, not snapping in the wind like the sharp-edged ribbons would. The purple across the rest of the owl was more subtle, just the details in the snowy feathers around the dishes of its huge eyes, an overlapping tone on the wings fading into those brilliant tail plumes. And the eyes were purple too, bright as jewels. Inside the bird’s head they turned headlights on the ground as it hunted. More powerful than binoculars, focused like a high definition television, the sparkling eyes reported back the dream world in perfect quality.

It––or I––swept through a shining golden landscape of rolling hills and a tiny silver river that threaded between them. All the details were picked out in jewels: ruby fruit in the trees, sapphire fishes in the river. My vast eyes darted all about, zooming in between trees or rippling along the grass searching for a single blade moving the wrong way. My delicate, deadly beak clicked, and the smallest shifting of my wing sent me spiralling down like a bomber plane until the tassels of fuzzy grass heads were nearly brushing the white and gold feathers at my breast. The huge wings snapped open silently, and I coasted along at a deceptively fast speed for the casual glide the owl seemed to take. My feet, tucked back until that moment, suddenly shot out with the huge golden claws spread wide as my eyes. The deer looked up. It was tiny to me. I’d thought we had been hunting mice, but it was long grass, as high as a bus in places. I must have had a fifteen foot wingspan, an owl the size of a car. My huge claws sunk into the deer before it had a chance to react to my stealth attack with more than frozen fear. Its friend darted away through the woods as I carried on flying, flapping my wings now, disturbing the air for the first time in my flight as I carried the deer back to my roost.

My eyes shot open and I fumbled around for my light, sat up and gasped out several long, shuddering breaths, feeling like I’d been underwater, swimming back to the surface in time to wake up. It took me a few more seconds to remember how to move all the bits of my body like a human, all elbows and knees and soft little hands and delicate, literally pointless feet.

As the flapping impulse receded and I got a little more of the upper hand in my own brain I sunk my head into my hands. Am I never going to have normal dreams again? I groaned. The couple of nights where I’d been chased through the woods by pixies had been the worst. I’d spent most of those nights hiding in the trees, hearing harsh voices calling for me, watching glittering lanterns pass below me as I prayed the goblins wouldn’t look up. The dreams that followed, once I had finally made my escape, were only better by comparison.

Being stuck waiting in a fairy train station for a whole week, looking for a train which had never come, had been almost as bad just because it had been so distressing to wait. In that time my life had stretched out before me and I’d had no idea where I was going, making the train seem like a viable escape plan when it came. Before all of that hassle and nightmare material I’d had dreams of two amazing months of incredible sex with the god of summer that made waking up and living my normal life total boring hell when I wanted to sleep forever to be with him again. So it was a bit hard to make an accurate scale of normal dreams anymore.

These new dreams were a bit so-so in comparison. I loved the flying, but it lacked an emotional hook. The owl was gorgeous, as was the thrill of the hunt. The killing startled me, even after throwing away a decent chunk of my humanity, and waking up afterwards always left me sweaty and a little sick. I hated that the owl always seemed to prey on dream deer.

It wasn’t like I was a vegetarian––I relished a bacon sandwich as much as the next person. But I shared a hypocritical fact with many other people that seeing where meat came from made me feel a lot iffier about it than when I’d happily ignored its provenance. Even things like, ‘it came from happy pigs!’ on the packaging made me feel better about eating it than worse because a joyful piggy life had been cut short for my nourishment.

But those claws...

I flopped back against the pillows. Well, the owl, whatever it was, had hunted for the night, and I knew that it wouldn’t hunt again until tomorrow. Plenty of experience there. I’d been troubled by these particular dreams for over a month now, ever since I got back from the fairy world after selling my name. It would soon overtake my Green Man dreams for the longest stretch of pointlessly annoying magical dreams. That fact just distressed me because it reminded me just how long it had been since I had last seen him.

I reached for the book on my nightstand––Come join us!––and dropped it.

I’d definitely just heard a small voice call out from somewhere nearby. I looked around and lifted my pillow. It happened again, shrill and uncertainly far away: Come join us! The call set my heart hammering with alarm. I looked wildly about, but didn’t see anything. It had been so faint, so confusingly placed I was almost unsure I’d heard it at all.

Frozen, I listened hard for a minute, but heard nothing more. As I relaxed and flopped back onto my pillow with a rustle of sheets, the sound seemed to spit out the extra words. Come join us! again squeaked from somewhere far away... But at the same time, almost spoken right beside my ear.

It had to be coming from outside. I slid out of bed, tugging self-consciously on the short hem of the T-shirt I was sleeping in, suddenly worried about what might see me. A glance around my mood-lit room showed nothing unusual. Like Ally, I had such a small room I never worried about monsters hiding in the shadows because I’d step on their tail when I walked in the door. Instead I leaned on the window ledge, scanning the dark cul-de-sac I lived in. It was the sort of neighbourhood Troutespond specialised in, where kids left their bikes out front and everyone had a sprinkler for their three square feet of immaculate lawn. It looked like aliens had come and beamed away all the children, leaving footballs and Frisbees where they had stood.

But there were people out there––small ones too, despite the hour being so late that if anyone under ten was around it was because they’d woken up at the crack of dawn to watch Saturday morning cartoons.

Come join us! they called insistently; I could see that their shadowy shapes were certainly not like those of human children. There was a tendency towards huge batlike ears and trailing limbs, eyes that flashed like cats’ and strange, stooped postures. Goblins. I wished that was surprising to me, but actually they were sort of like my employees, if I had to put a name to our relationship that wasn’t as creepy as servants. The creepiness was mostly why I had been avoiding them. That and I wasn’t sure how many of them had been hunting me in the dark a few months previous for much more sinister reasons than wanting a chat.

I pulled on a pair of shorts and went downstairs. Hadn’t this all started long ago with Ally sneaking outside to talk to a strange mythological figure? I found it quite amusing that I’d once thought she was insane for doing it. Apparently. My memories had all been wiped about those incidents, but Ally and Tanya had quite happily described what had happened to me and why I’d run off with the Green Man, starting off this very odd chapter of my life. It didn’t have to be my story. Once upon a time I had made the decision for it not to be. But I’d already made the decision before that for it to be. It was my astronaut or biochemist debate all over again, but an email from the European Space Agency could easily be ignored if I decided I didn’t want to talk to them after all. The fairies worked in a much more definite way. Eventually my choices had come back to me. I’d made an even bigger stupid decision and now it seemed like I would never be able to back away from it.

I let myself out of the back door and went onto the drive by the gate. The goblins clustered around me as soon as I’d passed my dad’s car and got halfway to the pavement. There must have been a dozen of them, and I even vaguely recognised some of the more weasel-like ones who’d latched onto me the moment this started, claiming to be my entourage, standing up for me and my claim to this power. Others were a bit less distinct or distinguished. Some seemed to be wearing garbage. What a great following.

Hey, back off, I told the goblins. They continued to clamour around me, reaching up with clawed hands to paw at my legs, forming a scrum at the back to try and get close to me.

I said back off! I hissed angrily, kicking at the closest ones, suddenly scared they might have rabies or some strange goblin disease I could get from their claws. They fell back but three more tumbled into each of their places, all looking up at me with the same horrific monster faces. There were a lot of fangs on display.

These things had been popping up in the corner of my vision for weeks now, smaller than the ones that seemed to actually live here in our world, the ones in human skin. Once or twice they had approached me. All the times they had attempted to speak to me, though, I’d taken a swing at them and sent them running and squeaking away. I guess this time they were relying on numbers to bully me into listening to them.

Go away! I cried, daring to raise my voice. I raised a hand as well. Maybe I was going to smite them? I didn’t actually know how... But a strong hand clamped over my wrist.

Don’t, a soft voice said in my ear, and I went limp, not entirely voluntarily. Leave, he added, talking to the goblins. I will sort this out with her. He had a very posh accent––that was how I knew who it was, from Ally and Alana’s descriptions. It was about the only thing they agreed on. But when the goblins had scampered away he let go of me and I turned to get my first look at the Piper. He was nothing like either of the already conflicting descriptions they’d given me. Ally rambled on about the dreadlocks, the skinny frame and dopey face that apparently attracted her far more than the chiselled looks of a Hollywood leading actor. Alana had grumbled about his habit of looking like characters from whatever TV show she had recently been watching, spoiling any sympathy she had for the character when she settled down with her DVDs to try and forget the hand life had dealt her.

You’re Indian? I asked, taking in his sharp features and long hooked nose, the pale, pale eyes I’d expected almost glowing in contrast to his dark face. His hair was roguishly unkempt and shaggy, the sort of style that if I’d been less allergic to touching people I would have loved to mess up just to watch it bounce back into his face.

Apparently to your eyes, he said, letting go of my arm to affect a shrug. He was still dressed like they’d said––black and white and grey, a little punk rock, a little Pied Piper. After a thoughtful pause he added, I suppose, usually, in India I would be. It is interesting since you decide what you see, he continued, like he’d totally forgotten that he’d just forcibly stopped me from beating up some goblins and this discussion was the most fascinating thing to happen to him all week. You’ve never felt like you fit in, living in this village of mostly affluent white people... Many people see me in almost exact opposition to themselves, but all of you girls see me as just like yourselves in some way. Like I was the most interesting thing to happen to him all week.

Does that make us special? I asked, taking a wary step back, trying to sound as firm as possible while talking to––for all I knew––an actual God of some sort. They’d always said the Piper was helpful, but he hadn’t exactly saved me from the pixies, rather the other way around. I’d heard a lot about how he dealt with problems, and I was suddenly worried that I was one of them. He wasn’t holding a whistle yet, but I wondered if I could karate chop one in half in case he pulled a flute on me.

Maladjusted, he said, all twinkling smiles but dangerous eyes. It doesn’t make my job easy. Especially when you don’t listen to your court. A Queen who takes no advice from those who know better than her very quickly ends up a deposed Queen. He shrugged again. "Usually sans head." Now the smile was dangerous too.

Did you send them? I snapped, gesturing the once-again-empty street where the goblins had crowded moments before.

He laughed, teeth flashing as white as his eyes in the pre-dawn murk. I don’t get involved in the affairs of the world. On that petty level. It’s more about cosmic justice and balance here. Right now you are in danger of unravelling millions of years of belief right from out of the Ritual. I hope Alana has told you about it by now.

Actually she has not. Alana and I had possibly got on for a few hours during the time before my memory was wiped and all this started, but she’d been an almost total stranger when I rejoined them with a headache and no idea why she was sitting with us in class. Her snobbish ways and subsequent handling of the changeling situation meant we hadn’t exchanged a friendly word. Ever. By the time this all spiralled out of control, I would happily take a phone call from my talkative aunt if I’d been left alone in a room with the girl and had no one else to put between us.

"Well, the mythology behind it is irrelevant to the bigger problem. You must take part in the Hunt on Midsummer. Surely you have discussed this with Alana?"

Um... The other week she messaged me personally to remind me to come to the shops with her and Ally, but I think Ally forced her to do that because her phone was dead. That marks the one and only time we’ve had a one-on-one conversation. She said ‘Yo, shops,’ and I said ‘K.’ I may have missed the subtext where she was supposed to explain the breaking the world thing?

I was impressed: I’d reduced the Piper to despairingly rubbing his forehead, hand trying to mask a look of frustration. He managed to hide the grimace and turn to me with a neutral expression. "You bought power as the Goddess of the Hunt––an immensely important figure in your local mythology. I know what teenagers are like with responsibility and power, but falling on the side of ‘can’t be bothered, Hollyoaks is on’ is somehow worse than going on a despotic rage and attempting to enslave man, beast and fae under an iron fist. You must do as you asked to be able to do and step up to the role. This is not some privilege. You bought it. You have to do it. You must become an accepted part of the Ritual, and the Wild Hunt is your first task within it."

What happens if I don’t? I asked, hoping maybe I’d just lose the powers and go back to a life where goblins didn’t stalk me. It sounded appealing. I hadn’t been able to use my power for anything I’d actually bought it for, and now it was just a burden.

When you sold your name you converted it into a vast amount of power which was poured into the Ritual in order to draw out the name of the Huntress and take it for your own. Because you have yet to claim the power you sold your name for by participating in the Ritual as the Goddess, all that power is still there, just waiting. You will never ever get the name back, but you can still have the power. A huge ritual date such as the upcoming Wild Hunt will be strong enough a symbol to safely hand all of this power to you. And you do not understand any of this. I can see you’re only confused by this––you didn’t understand when you sold your name, and you still won’t understand until you enter the Ritual properly. You can’t even see me properly.

I rolled my eyes at him, not appreciating his ranting tone. Well what happens to that power, and why is it my problem? The Ritual can have it...

"The Ritual is not a thing––it is a calendar. It has no physical presence or force. But there are those that can manipulate the loose power that flows from it. Power let free by dead gods, crazy wizards and hugely irresponsible teenagers with a god complex. There are much worse monsters that aspire to be gods––and even some gods themselves––who will try to take the power or squabble amongst themselves for it."

"Okay, look, I really don’t get it and no one ever explains anything to me… The goblins didn’t when I was buying this, they just told me it would get me what I wanted… And Alana’s been avoiding me because these are way too many things to just drop on a person in the middle of a hang out at the park… So why don’t you just try."

He dragged his hand over his face. "You’ve been told and you still don’t understand how strong seven syllables of a good human name can be. You can’t see it. I don’t even understand how you were smart enough to make this deal in the first place, even though the goblins have flocked to your cause. If all this power is left loose, something else might offer the people of this valley a better deal, a new leader to change the order of their world. And if they get their hands on the power unused by the Goddess it was intended for, they will use it to reshape the Ritual to their needs; a mix of yours and whatever dark powers they already have, and maybe––and I never thought I would actually have to say this, even in my line of work... Maybe even bring about the end of all things as we know them."

So now I have to do this Wild Hunt thing to save the universe?

He threw his hands up in what I hoped was mock defeat. "It wouldn’t need saving if you had stepped up and done your duty to begin with! Nothing would be sneaking close, eyeing your power, nibbling at its edges to test its weight... You should have talked to Alana. You should have talked to those goblins. You should never have put it off so long I had to talk to you. Your name has been echoing through the Ritual for over a month and every opportunistic creature has it written down, waiting for you to abandon it."

Wait... I frowned, using that moment to gather my thoughts up a little, processing the facts between his overdramatic speech and accompanying pacing. So if I go on this Hunt, I get amazing magical powers?

You already have them––you merely have no idea how to use them.

Oh, so the owl dream is part of that then?

"You ought to be able to control that bird. To call the owl to you; even now, here on the street. You ought to be