The Enchanted

By JC Brennan

Rebecca Gentry, Becca, has grown up on her beloved grandmother's stories. The tales of castles, evil Lords, witches, and beings of magical realms have fascinated and mystified Becca. Some stories her grandmother made up, but others were handed down through the generations of her family.

When Becca's grandmother dies a week befo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Brennan
• Release date: Apr 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087940991

Book preview

Chapter 1: Michigan, 1978

Chapter 1

Michigan, 1978

Michigan, 1978

Looking out the window, my elbows on its ledge, a black canvas dotted with a billion specks of lights stretches as far as my eye can see. It’s such a beautiful night for a new moon. A dark moon. A time when the lunar disk hides from us for a short time. My mother told me it’s a moon with an aura of mystery and magic. It’s a moon of folklore and myth. The tales of old shrouded in witchery, darkness, and banishment. Banishment of what? I have a feeling I would not want to know. But tonight is the lunar phase of a new moon. All of nature seems to know the power alignment the moon and the sun have, for all is unusually quiet outside my window tonight.

I was born on the night of a new moon. My mother told me that my mind and heart are in perfect harmony because I was born in this lunar phase. She said because of my inner peace, emotional turmoil would not afflict me. She was right. I never remember having an internal conflict, at least not yet.

The night chill gives rest to the days sweltering heat and humidity. My room is relaxed and comfortable; a breeze drifts through the open window, fluttering the sheers beneath pale-green handmade curtains with its presence. Discreet whispers arise with its marginal presence, revealing its secrets. The breeze encircles me, crafts a slight chill. Small bumps break out on the surface of my skin and the hairs on my arms stand erect. It meanders through my hair; thin strands come to rest on my nose, tickling and making it itch.

The aroma of Parma violet and Florentine iris, from Grandmother’s favorite perfume, De Volette De Parme of Parma, rides its sail. My grandfather gave her four bottles of fragrant oil after their marriage in 1920, which was quite an extravagant gift. She loved it so much she would buy a bottle a year, needed or not. Now, fifty-some years later, she still has an old leather hatbox with bottles of the fragrance, which I find quite impressive. She once told me a dab of perfume was enough. Too much of any scent made a lady smell like a woman of the night—hooker, a call girl, or more vulgar, a whore. I guess woman of the night sounds less callous to her when speaking of such things with her granddaughter.

Have you brushed your teeth, young lady?

No.

Well, I suggest you do if you want to hear a story tonight.

Jumping off my bed and rushing to the bathroom, I pull my toothbrush from my Marvin the Martian toothbrush holder. He grips the toothbrush like his Illudium Q-36 explosive space modulator in his left hand, ready to blow up the earth. However, since Marvin the Martian holds a toothbrush, there will be no earthshattering boom. Grasping the toothpaste, I unscrew the plastic top, put a dab on the bristles, and quickly brush my teeth, making sure I get my back teeth good; my mom was a stickler about this. Rinsing my mouth and spitting the extra toothpaste into the sink, I run my toothbrush under the water, put it back into its place, and hurry back into my room.

Done? Grandma asks.

Yes.

Did you get those back teeth?

Yes, I did. Grandma stops what she is doing for a moment, studies me, and asks, Are you sure?

I did, see. I walk over to her and open my mouth as wide as it will go.

She bends down and looks into my mouth. Yep, and you did a good job. Now go sit on your bed until I am ready.

Okay.

Walking over to my bed, I climb up, scooch back until my feet are the only thing not touching any part of the bed. I take off my left bunny slipper and bend my leg up and over my right one. Grandma has always told me stories, but since Mommy died, she tells me one every night. With the thought of her, I grab Raggedy Ann into my arms and squeeze her tight. I sit patiently waiting for Grandma to finish getting ready for tonight’s story.

Chapter 2: The Stage

Chapter 2

The Stage

The Stage

The moonless night and my grandmother’s theatrics have turned my usually bright, colorful room into an eerie, shadowy one. The dim light from candles, sporadically placed around the room, dance with the subtle breeze tickling their flames. Amid their soft glint, shades of dark and light mix create an ethereal stage, which is, I suspect, precisely the way grandmother wants it.

Clink. Clank. Bang. The clamor of props being collected and precisely placed for the upcoming performance disrupts the tranquil eve. With a long wooden match, grandmother lights the last candle. She then swiftly turns, scrutinizing the room, determining if everything she has done thus far meets her standards. With a nod of approval, she sifts through items brought in earlier. She fastens a cloak around her shoulders and places replicas of a dragon shield and Claymore sword against the gray sheet-covered wall she hung earlier this evening.

She moves the wooden keepsake box dad made for me in front of her makeshift stage with some effort. The box’s weight is not from the items it stores but from the box itself. The box only has a few things within its walls: a blanket my mother made for me and an antique doll given to my grandmother by her grandmother at the age of nine. The heavy oak is weighty, makes it most challenging to slide across the blue-green rainbow-striped carpet. Grandma’s panache nature is meticulous, mystical, and unconventional. She is a rare person like my mother was. Her eccentricity is what I love most about her. So, I sit quietly, waiting as she sets the mood for tonight’s story.

When she finishes setting the stage, she steps up onto the box, clears her throat, and boasts, A long time ago. She steps back off the box, Can you hear me all right? She asks.

Yes.

"Good. Be patient a few moments longer while I make sure everything is perfect.

I watch as she rummages through the box full of props again. I’m not sure what items the box contains, but she’s always prepared for anything her stories may need.

My grandma isn’t like most grandmas. There is no sitting in a rocking chair or at your side in a bed to spin a story. Oh no, my grandmother makes the story into a theatrical spectacle. Her stories are captivating. They stimulate my imagination with each word and each movement she makes. The story she tells on this night will be a poignant one. After dinner, she told me tonight’s tale is full of passion, love, betrayal, and death. I am so excited for her to get started.

I love to watch her shift gracefully and precisely in tandem with the words spoken. Her facial expressions, the skin around her eyes and mouth bunch, forming multiple folds, then smooth, conveying the fanciful character’s happiness, sadness, seriousness, even their misery at times. She radiates the emotions of the characters in which she speaks. Grandma does this in a way that the people in her stories seem to be real. It’s as if everything she tells happened in a dim and distant past, as if she lived the experiences.

She always uses different nuances to convey the emotions of the characters as an enticing drama unfolds. Her long gray-black hair accentuates her undulations and gestures, rolling like the waves of a vast ocean with her moves as if it were a separate though connected living entity. Her arms and hands sway, flying upward, outward, or downward to punctuate the mood of the tale. Fluctuating her voice brings life emotions, circumstances, and people as words spill from her thin lips. Her well-rounded mannerisms add significance to her stories that demand attention, for her tales are not to be taken lightly.

The words of her tales swirl in harmony with the candlelight, which casts dancing silhouettes along the walls and ceiling. She likes candlelight when telling a story. I believe it’s because of this effect. Also, I think she notices when my mind is wandering instead of being attentive. She senses things like this.

I love this time of night. I love grandmother’s stories, but sadness comes with this tale, despair that rekindles my desire for my mother to be alive once more. I am not sure why, but grief befalls me. The pain of her death strangles my heart as it did the day she died. I guess any daughter who loses their mother at such a young age wants their mothers to return. Sometimes, I believe she will come back to me as illogical as it sounds.

With determination, grandma sets a few more trinkets upon the small table set up earlier. Now a handkerchief, an old book, and a fake dagger grace its top. The lines deepen on her brow as she steps back to inspect the stage.

I think that will do. What do you think? grandma asks.

I think it’s wonderful. I can’t wait to hear the story. You put so much work into the stage I bet it will be the best story yet.

Oh, it will be. I hope you enjoy this story and remember it for a long time.

I will. Well, I hope I will.

Grandma smiles and says, Are you ready.

I am.

"Good, then let’s get started.

Chapter 3: Grandma’s story

Chapter 3

Grandma’s story

Grandma’s Story

Grandma’s arms sway in rhythmic ballet—a choreographed hither and thither right from the beginning.

A long time ago, in a village far away. Since the days of old, legends and myths have been told. Stories of werewolves, demons, and vampires spoke to scare children abound. Stories of shapeshifters, ghosts, goblins, and Wendigos terrifying wide-eyed children holding their teddy bears close. Grandma avers in a bold voice, "The worst of the monsters in the windfall of beastly tales are not deemed by most monsters at all. Despite being the nastiest and most evil monsters by far, humans do not conjure images of ghastly monsters. Although, they should top the list. There is no discrimination when it comes to the monsters of humanity. No matter their sexual orientation, religion, or ethnicity, humans can be the most depraved of any monster created!"

Her body sways. She throws her arm outward. One crooked finger, from the onset of arthritis, rigidly extends, adding emphasis to her words. "I will tell you this tale, and I will tell no lie. Both happy and sad the story will be. Parts form a burning fury in your gut, overwhelm you with tears, but every word I speak to you is true. The events I describe will bring wisdom to those who listen and listen closely.

"But know this, know it well; it did happen in days of old. It happened in the time of kings and queens. A time of witches warped the gates of hell. Evil comes in many forms, but when King Dontallar’s deprave desires call a nefarious presence, it ignites a monstrous curse. It is he who invites the storm!"

Um, grandma, I’m sorry to interrupt.

Yes, dear.

Don’t you think this is a little overly dramatic for a bedtime story?

No. No, I don’t, grandma says, stepping from my keepsake box. I recognize now; the box—her grand stage—adds to the theatrics of this story. If you’re going to do something, no matter how small, do it with a little spunk, my girl. Put everything you are into it, she tells me with a quick wink. She adds, You will do well to remember that. With a raised eyebrow, she walks back to her stage.

I will, grandma.

With a dramatic little spin, she asks, Am I boring you? knowing full-well I live for her stories.

No, grandma, not at all. I was just a little nervous about the box. I’d hate to see you fall.

Oh, balderdash, I’ll be fine, she says with a wave of her hand. Now, can I finish the story? she asks with a slight frown on her lips and fake irritation in her voice. She is an exceptional actress in her own right.

Yes, please do, I say, for I do want to hear her story. She’s the best storyteller ever born. When she communicates her stories in the way she does, they transport me to a different place—a different time. There are times I wish I could stay within the fantastical realms she so vividly describes.

All right, she utters with forged annoyance. Her right-hand index finger extends, shaking in an up and down fashion before me. She warns, But no more interruptions.

I cross my heart, I reply, making an invisible cross over my chest.

Good! Now, where was I? She markedly ponders, slowly strolling around the room. I love how animated she is. Suddenly, she spins around with her finger, the same one she just shook at me a moment ago, and points toward the sky. Ah, yes, I remember now, King Dontallar’s curse and the storm he creates, she declares. Remembering where I interrupted, her story resumes.

"King Dontallar is from a time when men were men and women knew their place and did as they were told! He wants for nothing, or at least he believed for a time. He had riches lavish in abundance. He had his children, all boys, a kingdom, and an army full of loyal and brave men to defend his land from adversaries. One would think he had everything, and he did until his wife’s death.

"His beautiful wife dies with the birth of his last son. His heart shatters as if ripped from his chest. He feels nothing but emptiness. Dontallar’s spirit perishes as darkness steals his soul. For months, he stays locked in his chamber. Day after day alone, sorrow gnaws at him. His passion dissolves, leaving emptiness.

"Day after day, servants bearing food knock at the king’s chamber doors and wait for an acknowledgment. Some time passes without a word from the king; his solitude and lack of nourishment concern his servants.

The day comes when a servant, Aileen, opens the door and enters the king’s chambers with a tray of food in her hands. She knows her actions go against her king’s decree. However, her emotions override her logic on this day, compelling her to check on him no matter the punishment.

Entering the chamber, she is met with the back of his hand, slamming her to the wall. The tray falls, and food flies in all directions. Aileen drops to the floor, blood spills from her nose, and her upper lip swells. Dontallar screams, ‘Pick up this mess. Let this be a lesson to ye and all who enter my chamber without permission. Acts such as this will not be tolerated. Get out!’"

Grandma pounds her fist on the table as she says the words. I jump. Of course, it is the effect she wants.

"After that day, the servants set food outside of his chamber door, and no one dared to enter no matter how long he stayed silent. Each day alone, he becomes colder as darkness corrupts him, swaddling him in her embrace. Year after year, the love he once had, she sucks out of him simultaneously, interweaving cruelty and hatred. His heart blackens in her cloak, leaving but a faint residue of humanity.

"Fourteen years after his wife’s death, what Dontallar direly craves is a woman. He wants a woman who will love him or pretend to. Whether the woman’s love is mutual matters little to him; as long as she caters to his every whim, she will do.

"A young gypsy, Isobel, caught his eye a while back. He saw her walking in the woods outside the castle walls. Her lips the color of a rose; he is sure they are as soft as its petals. Diamond-blue eyes shimmered in the sun, and her long raven hair swayed in the breeze. She snared his attention then, and now he realizes she is what he desires—the one he will have.

"The young maiden is, without question, the fairest in the kingdom. He finds himself yearning for her. And though he can take her on a whim, for his word is law. However, he wants her to come to him, to need him. If he can find a way to create a situation that leaves her no choice but to come to him, she will be his. He must manufacture a set of circumstances that will secure she remains forever in his debt.

"Unbeknownst to the king, his eldest loves the maiden, and she returns his affection with an abundant, unwavering loyalty. Their love flourishes as the days fade and start anew. Demi’s heart bursts with joy with each smile, twinkle of her eyes, and laugh. The day arrives, and he can hide his affections no more. His body aches for her, and his heart overflows with love. He will do anything for her happiness. He will give her the world to keep tears from her eyes. He will die to keep her safe.

"Unbeknown to Demi, this day is the same day the king makes his decision to have Isobel for his own. Demi goes to his father to confess his love for Isobel. He wants to tell his father the glorious news of his intentions to ask for her hand, taking Isobel to his side.

His father’s reaction is surprising. Demi expected his father to be joyous and happy for him, but this was not the case. Instead, he witnesses his father’s face grow inflamed with anger. Demi feels the fury burning through his father and cannot understand his reaction. King Dontallar forbids their union.

Grandma steps back up on the box. Her long dark hair inundated with streaks of gray shifts with her body and moves with her words. She waves her arms above her head as if she is trying to conjure a spell and continues in a bold voice.

"‘She is unholy! Her gypsy upbringing is not of yer worth,’ Dontallar proclaims. ‘She’s cast a spell on ye to access your future fortune.’

"Demi is infuriated with his father’s harsh tone and false accusations—ire erupts from the depths of his soul. Venom rules his father’s tongue without reason for his outlandish accusations.

"‘How can ye speak such lies,’ Demi growls, jaws clenched, teeth grinding. He stands unwavering before the king, rage burning through his veins.

‘She’s a woodlander, yes, but not a witch! She’s a gift to hold with the highest esteem!’

"Dontallar’s eyes turn to his son. Acid and jealousy rush through him like molted iron. He will not tolerate such insolence under his domain.

‘Hear me boy and hear me well. Ye will end this affair, or I will send ye to a fate worse than ye can comprehend.’

"Demi’s pain and rage bloom; an inner storm promptly swells. With unchecked resentment, he howls at his father without restraint, ‘Nae, I will not abide by yer rule. Ye may be king, but yer a fool! I denounce ye! I denounce this prison of a kingdom! I will marry Isobel with or without yer blessing.’

Grandma’s posture is stern. Her clenched fist raised high above her head. She brings it down fast and hard. However, she’s changed her position towards the window, so she does not hit the table this time. She only acts as if she’s hitting something. Her features scrunch, folds of skin multiply on her brow and under her eyes in anger as if she’s the one feeling contempt for King Dontallar.

"The king’s blood seethes. Madness slithers through him like a crazed lunatic. He hisses, pulling his sword, swinging before logic halts his hand. His sword is swifter than his mind as it strikes true. Demi bays a guttural sound. Then silence and darkness enshroud the room and seem to suck all oxygen from within its four walls. Dontallar stares blankly at the floor. Crimson fluid oozes from his son’s chest, coursing down his torso and pooling at his sides.

"Dontallar’s breathing becomes rapid. His chest heaves, expanding and contracting. With each frantic breath, his face twists in bewilderment. Disbelief replaces the madness in his wild eyes. With shaking hands, gripping at the tears on his face, he bellows, ‘Oh, God, what have I done?’

"Yes, Demi had angered him. His son, his blood, was about to betray him by taking the one thing he wanted—needed—so desperately. Dontallar meant to punish him, but his inability to control his anger leads to this unspeakable act. Devoid of dissuading his gaze from his son’s lifeless body, despair swells in him. Consumes him. Paralyzes him.

‘I’m damned from this moment to the day I die.’

"So blind is the king, he doesn’t realize he sealed his damnation long before this moment. His heartless, cruel rule decided his fate long ago. The murder of his son only lets evil take hold.

"Now, looking down at his son, every fiber of his body trembling, darkness surrounds his heart. Its rancid depravity flows like oil—sluggish and thick. Its roots impale and intertwine with the muscle, squeezing to oust all humanity. The dark force fulfills its desire with the creation of a stone-cold void. A man’s shell is left. Nothing but a hollow marionette to execute the beast desires with the slightest tug of a string.

"Dontallar’s view of his son, Demi, lay dying by his hand, no longer holds its sway. Gazing down, it’s as if Demi were a dead rat or a decaying carcass that lay on the stone.

"‘My Lord, what have ye done?’ Chimes from behind him. Dontallar is startled, but his empathetic eyes do not wavier. The voice is that of Arthur, his Chamberlain.

"Dontallar does not answer right away, still gazing upon the demise of his eldest son. Vacant of sorrow and pain, his body stiffens. He glares at Arthur but does not explain his alarming actions. Arthur takes a step back, watching the unholy presence. Corrupt and merciless, it consumes all remnants of the king he knew.

"Arthur no longer recognizes the king’s voice as he orders, ‘Dispatch a messenger to Belfour’s home in the Woodlander’s village. Inform the daughter, Isobel, of Demi’s demise and bring her to Castle Fordottar.’

"Arthur doesn’t move, having difficulty believing this is the man he has served for more than half his life. Yes, the king has been harsh since