My Magic Summer

By Brian Carmody

Who are these moon maidens?
Summer of ’94 and Connor Whelan is excited to spend the last three months before his senior year with his uncle in Texas. Aware this trip is due to his mom’s cancer treatments, he still hopes this will be a season of magic.
He gets his wish when he encounters three magical women one night. Claiming to be from the moon itself, bewitching Iluna, flighty Eiru, and motherly Cassiopeia are about to make Connor’s last summer of childhood one to remember.
However, his interest in local girl Laura puts him in hot water with her tough boyfriend. His fascination with Iluna also confuses him. Will the moon maidens’ lessons about joy, wonder, and hope get him through this crazy summer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dancing Lemur Press LLC
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781939844811

Brian Carmody

The award-winning screenwriter and author of Hellish Beasts and A Heart Condemned to Roam, Brian Carmody is a dreamer, a wisher, a hoper, a prayer, a pretender and a magic bean buyer, He’s had moondreams from Texas to Virginia, and now California, where he has plenty of other flax golden tales to spin by his fire.

Book preview

Prologue

I was seventeen (almost) the summer of 1994 when they came for me. I don’t mean that in a threatening, monstrous way. More romantic, but not romantic like you see in Hallmark cards and homecoming dance. Not as straightforward a love story as that, though I certainly learned a thing or two about passion, and the light taste of Iluna’s kiss will never leave my lips. I mean romantic in a breathtaking, transcendent way. Something spiritual. Something real. Romantic like the great old adventures, stories so grand and fantastic that your heart pounds and your blood races and calling it romantic feels right.

Romantic like a warm summer evening in that magic hour between day and night we call dusk. The fireflies are out, and you walk out onto the porch, and breathe in the air, so fresh and clean without the dwindling sun. Then you look up, and the silver moon, that awesome glowing giant, has risen, and you’re speechless. You can’t say a word. But that’s okay because you don’t have to. There’s nothing that needs to be said and no words that can describe it.

That kind of romance.

When I say moon maidens came for me, what do you think of? Do you think of witches? Druids, perhaps? Fair Celtic beauties in sheer white dresses, thin, or nothing at all?

Closer. The same solar system anyway, if not the right planet.

It’s still there, of course, that glistening jewel in the sky, some nights waxing, some waning, some new. And sometimes it’s full. When it’s full, so am I. My heart rises, and my breath quickens. It’s as if I’m under a spell. I’m a werewolf in love. A few nights a month, I walk on stardust, eyes aglow, and I hear faint echoes of their heavenly hums when I look up, past the stars, into Heaven and the silver round face of God.

So, I look forward to moonrise.

And when I see it, I remember. I remember every vivid detail of The Magic Summer. I remember the joy, the wonder, the awe. I remember the sweet and the sour, the hot days and endless nights. I remember the sweat, the laughs, the tears, the fear and trembling, passion and desire. I remember remembering.

Most of all, I remember them. Those strange, beautiful moon maidens, and how in all the realms of Heaven and Earth, they came down to the little town of Still Bayou, Texas, and of all the souls in the cosmos, they had touched mine. Whenever I’m feeling down, or low, or as though I don’t matter, I remember they chose me. Sensual, bewitching Iluna; flighty, ethereal Eriu; and motherly, glorious Cassiopeia.

Iluna. Eriu. Cassiopeia. Those are the names I know for joy, wonder, hope.

And when I remember them, my heart leaps and my soul quakes. To remember something so sweet and magical, something out of a fairy tale but oh so real. All the beauty comes back to me, all the joy, and once again I’m light as air. Once again, I touch the surface of the moon.

And then I weep.

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Chapter One

It’s not real syrup, you know, my dad said as I filled the grid in my waffle. I liked the symmetry of it. Small squares within a larger. It looked right. It felt right.

I know, but it tastes good.

We were sitting in a booth at the Waffle House, our last pitstop before Still Bayou, and I sensed he was dragging it out. Taking his sweet time. It’s not that he wanted to avoid his brother or put off getting back to Mom. I think it was more that he knew he wouldn’t see his son again until at least July, and he wouldn’t be back together with the whole family until September. I didn’t imagine he looked forward to the next three months as much as I did. I foresaw a bleak future for him, waiting on Mom through the most difficult parts of her treatment. And she would be spending so much of her days in the clinic. How would he keep busy in the meantime? I imagined him taking a lot of sad walks alone under the Vermont foliage. Not saying anything, kicking at the dirt with his hands in his pockets and trying not to think of everything. My heart sank for him.

No, it does not, he said this with a smile. It tastes like what it is, which is high fructose corn syrup.

But isn’t corn good for you? I asked. It’s a vegetable, right?

It’s a starch, Connor. It has its good qualities, but processed like that, it’s like white bread. He grimaced, shaking his head in dismissal. No nutrients.

Well, I guess up in Vermont you’ll get plenty of the good stuff. Real syrup, right?

I was cautious about mentioning anything to do with Vermont, but it was unavoidable.

Oh sure. I mean, it’s not in season, but you can bet they hoard buckets.

He did not wear his emotions on his sleeve, this old Green Beret turned mechanic. He was always matter of fact about everything. Even when he first told me about Mom, it was as though he talked about somebody else. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but that he had a way of maintaining his composure, sticking to the simple truth without complicating things with a bunch of sap.

I didn’t mind. I supposed I veered that way myself. Especially around family.

* * *

Still Bayou’s a smallish town, I guess. Then you drive past that green sign signifying the city limits, see the POP. 32,353 and it’s like, huh, where do they put all the people? Maybe because it’s a sprawling community with people all over the place. Just because there’s no bustling metropolitan downtown doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of people around. Still Bayou is a quiet place about forty miles from Houston, with more trees visible than people despite what the sign said. The lonely east of the Lone Star State. We kept passing a Whataburger or a Walmart, but it still felt sparse, in a comforting, quiet way. I liked it.

The bayou itself was no mean or insubstantial thing. A long, weaving body of water, snakelike in its curves and versatility. Here and there it ran alongside the highway with naught but a sliver of grass between road and water, as if it were another lane. Down the line it cut away from civilization, heading toward the woods, where the cypress trees with Spanish moss hung over either side, framing it like guests at a wedding. Here lay the toads and gators and what-have-yous of the swamp primeval. Dinosaurs lurked below, or so my cousins and I used to pretend when we were little and wandering about where we weren’t allowed.

The bayou grew from a trickle into a mighty river and finally ended with a pool at the foot of Burnet’s Mount, a modest hill, greater in width than height.

We started to get more residential when we passed the Still Bayou Public Library, a short but long, beige building with a row of tinted windows. It looked like a modest establishment, but something about it was endearing, and I already knew I would be spending a lot of time there. I closed my eyes as we drove past, imagining the quiet interior and the smell of the bindings. Some people prefer new cars. I like old books.

My heart lifted with recognition of the familiar old places.

There are the bowls! I shouted over the radio, which had been playing Rush Limbaugh through three states.

The bowls.

Such a distinctive landmark at the entrance to my grandparents’ neighborhood, now my uncle’s. As you drove in, sitting atop a hedge, were two massive stone bowls on either side of the road.

Yes, there they are, Dad agreed.

How long have they been there?

They were up when Willard and I were kids.

I guess it’s like a sculpture by the city?

He shrugged Yeah, something like that.

Uncle Willard was waiting for us in the front yard, idly picking weeds when we arrived.

Well look what the cat dragged in! He grinned from ear to ear as Dad parked. Uncle Willard was a thin man, and he always had an easy-going disposition. Con Man, get your butt over here and give your uncle a hug!

I smiled and walked over.

He slapped me on the back and held me close. Sweet sixteen, boy! You grown on me. What are they feeding you up there in DC?

Uh, you know, this and that. We don’t have Whataburgers and Big Red, so…

Got some catching up to do. He laughed hearty and walked over to my Dad. You have a good drive, Russell?

They shook hands.

Well, Will, it’s a straight shot from Mobile. I kept on the 10.

When you were going through LA, you and Con Man stop at Critter’s Roadhouse?

You know we did.

I grinned. I had a gator po’ boy.

Well how about that!

Uncle Willard’s house was old and full of memories. Sepia photos of my grandfather in uniform and my grandmother, the war nurse, hung on the walls, as did various crosses, many Celtic in nature. I liked the red shag carpeting and cheap wooden panels. Uncle Willard kept his beers and steaks in a fridge in the garage next to his weight set. I glanced at the dumbbells and kettle weights as we walked inside and vowed to get some use out of them during my stay. I could bulk up. It’d be healthy, and, you know, for the girls.

An antique piano stood in the sitting room, a quiet place with a velvet couch and nothing going on. Nobody ever went in there. It was well-preserved, as were the cabinets set aside for the fine china and my grandmother’s ceramic figurines.

We ate a brief, light dinner with scant conversation, and I heard, with ringing clarity, what wasn’t being said. Uncle Willard wanted to know how Mom was doing, but he didn’t want to ask. Dad wanted Uncle Willard to know, but he didn’t want to say. So, they made small talk about roads and the Houston Oilers.

Afterward, Uncle Willard showed me the guest room I’d be staying in. He called it The Break Room because it was a little rectangular cave that jutted out of the den with no door. We walked past the pool table and I ran my hands across the soft green felt, cherishing it.

Keeping up with your pool? Uncle Willard asked.

I don’t get much practice up in Virginia, but I’m looking forward to playing again.

Well, you’ll be a regular shark by the end of the summer! Hustler style.

When I was younger, my cousins and I had a lot of fun times at the pool table. We even slept under it. Everything felt so empty now. Quiet.

Grandparents and aunts and so many cousins, first, second, something removed, and many friends of the family. Now, only the three of us, and my father would be leaving early in the morning. I thought of the prospect with melancholy and wonder. Uncle Willard was an easy-going man with few demands, and I imagined there’d be freedom ahead of me.

After saying goodnight, I lay in the little twin bed, idly rereading a Narnia book (The Horse and His Boy, for the third time) by the light of a crow lamp (that is, the light bulb perched on a base of a beautifully carved wooden crow). I kept losing my place because I was giddy with the possibilities ahead of me. I said a prayer for my mother and tried to temper my joy, but I couldn’t get over it. Three months! Just me and my uncle! This was the first week of summer, and it had barely begun. I could get a job. Make new friends. Meet a girl. Spend whole days in the water. Make camp at Burnet’s Mount. Be a mallrat over at the Sam Houston Galleria. Catch up on my reading at that delightful library. Uncle Willard could let me borrow his truck and take me to R-rated movies. I could get in better shape. I brought my journal. I could write stories. This summer was going to be The Magic Summer.

And then my smile turned a fraction sad because it hit me, once again, the finality of it all. I was on the edge of seventeen and just finished 11th grade. This was it. In September I’d be starting my senior year. A year from now, I wouldn’t be on some kid’s vacation. The brief interval between high school and college was for adult stuff, with the crushing weight of responsibility and being a grown up sucking the fun right out. For better or worse, this would be my last summer.

Better make it count.

I turned off the crow light. My mother and my youth were thoughts for another day. For now, to sleep and dream of other things.

Before my mind drifted off to the land of nod, I gazed out the window and up to the sky. The stars were out but not the moon, lending the night a somber emptiness.

At the time, I had no idea, I hadn’t even dreamt, of how full the sky could get, and how bright the night.

Chapter Two

It had been a brief goodbye. Like I said, my dad wasn’t much on ceremony. But I sensed the somberness in him as he kept up a poker face with a slight smile and patted me on the shoulder.

Connor, be good now.

Yes, sir.

And don’t give your uncle too much trouble.

Willard chimed in here. Oh, we’re gonna have a lot of fun! He’s no trouble.

Thanks, Will. He looked back to me. Remember to say your prayers.

I will.

Be good. And… He searched. Enjoy your time here, you know? Don’t be afraid to meet people.

Okay.

I love you.

I love you, too, Dad.

We hugged. He shook his brother’s hand and then drove away, out of my life for some time.

Uncle Willard immediately sparked up. He slapped me on the back, grinning. Dad’s gone. Let’s go fishing!

* * *

We walked three-quarters of a mile down to Hud Creek. Once there, Uncle Willard took off his shoes and waded into the mud, a man with no tools or, as far as I could see, a plan. I notice that we didn’t bring any fishing rods, I said.

Very astute, young man. He pointed his finger at me. Very astute. He looked down at the mud below him. This is good. No crocs here.

An alarming thing to worry about. I looked around nervously.

Is that a concern?

Nah. Not now. But I’ll tell you a whopper in a bit. Old Napoleon, Emperor Gator!

He walked into the water up to his mid-calves. I held the bucket, waiting for further instructions. You gotta keep in mind, a catfish isn’t like any other fish. Consequentially and not coincidentally, you don’t catch them the same way, either. Some people don’t think there’s a game at all. Say there’s no hunt in it. I don’t agree.

I don’t know what you mean. And how do you catch them, anyway? Are we going to fish with dynamite? I grinned. What a concept!

No. He laughed. No, that’s illegal in this county. It’s not…oh there’s one!

You see a catfish?

I feel a hole with my foot, which is even better. Fishing for catfish, I don’t even call it fishing. It’s called noodling.

Why?

You’ll see. Here!

He ducked under water and squirmed around for a moment. I was puzzled and amused. By all appearances, he was trying to catch it by hand.

After a few seconds, he emerged out of the water, victorious, with a catfish as big as…well, a cat, dangling off the end of his arm.

Whooo! This is a big fella. He smirked with glee, unshaken.

That’s…whoa! I gasped.

Get over here, man. Check on this!

I walked over with the bucket, and he dropped it in. I stared at the flopping fish in fascination.

So, you just…reached into the hole and grabbed it?

Reached right in! You feel around with your foot, find that sweet spot, then take the plunge. Shoot your arm right down. No fear.

So, you want them to bite you?

Ain’t nothing but a thing! ‘Gum’ you’d be more accurate, being that a catfish doesn’t have any teeth.

It’s weird.

Yeah. He chuckled. I guess it is. You want to give it a try?

Uhh….

Well, don’t answer right away. Let’s give the muck some time to settle. He reached into the bucket and gave the fish a reassuring pat. Here we go, big fella. He picked up the fish and cradled it like a baby. Catch and release. He tossed it back into the water. I smiled, and my apprehension melted away. Most of it anyway, as I still wasn’t sure about a fish’s mouth up to my elbow. But I was glad I wouldn’t have to watch it die. It could all be fun.

And it was. There I was up to my knees, arm deep in a gigantic lake monster with whiskers. It felt weird and gross, but not scary. It tickled more than anything else. After I had my fun, I set the guy back into the water and watched him swim away, as if he could shrug off the experience as easy as I could. Like he didn’t just have a human arm down his throat, but it was par for the course.

It’s you and nature, Uncle Willard said as we sat on the grass, watching the creek. No poles, no flies, no boat even. I bet that’s how cavemen fished.

Maybe they used rocks, I said.

Yeah, and they were hunting plesiosauruses or whatever Cretaceous leviathan may have swum those shallow waters back then. But the point is the same. When you noodle, there’s nothing but you. Your ingenuity, your body, your mind. So, you deserve it if the fish comes to you. That’s God saying this one’s on the house.

* * *

After noodling, Uncle Willard wished me luck as I went off to find a job. He was still in the Navy, but the reserves now and occasionally reported back to Corpus. During the week, he worked at Ulman’s Printer’s as an in-house electrician. He offered to drop me off wherever I wanted to go. The library was fine with me.

I don’t think you’re going to find a job there. I figure they’re still all staffed up. Mrs. Brigsby’s been there since I was a kid.

Well, if they don’t have jobs, it’s still pretty close to town, I said. And there’s more treasure in the pages of a book then in all the Whataburgers in the world.

Smart kid. He grinned, tousling my hair.

Still Bayou Public Library looked, indeed, a modest place, but much appreciated. The books were well-kept, and they contained that pleasant musk of old glue and new laminate I always found intoxicating.

I had made it to their Clive Barker section and was pleasantly surprised they had more than one book. I perused The Great and Secret Show when a boy about my age came around the corner with a respectable stack of Redwalls.

Impressive collection, my friend. As soon as the words left my mouth, I worried I might have sounded silly.

He was a tall, pudgy guy with mousy brown hair.

You’re into Redwall?

A little. I shrugged. I prefer Narnia, as far as talking mice are concerned.

Don’t you mean talking lions?

Talking anything. Reepicheep was a talking mouse and awesome.

I should go back to Narnia, he admitted. "I went as far as Prince Caspian."

Not your cup of tea?

It’s a good cup. But they kept changing the order. That’s annoying, you know. Like, Prince Caspian used to be number two, now it’s number four? How’d that happen?

"It’s chronological. The Magician’s Nephew takes place first, but I think he wrote it last. Maybe second to last."

He shrugged, considering it. Then he pointed to the book in my hands. What are you on now?

I held it up; its red cover graced with demons, beckoning any prospective reader to a literary voyage worth taking. "The Great and Secret Show. I read this one already, but I want to reread it, because I hear he’s coming out with a sequel this year."

Who is?

Clive Barker.

Oh yeah. Horror guy, right? Like Stephen King?

More British. And he’s gruesome, bloody, and… I looked down. …sexual.

He smirked. Nice.

I guess. I mean, there are no pictures or anything.

Yeah, but you can imagine, right? He took it from me and looked through the pages. What’s this one about?

It’s hard to describe. And it’s been a while since I read it. But there are two guys, I think they’re scientists or mystics or something. Anyway, they find this potion, or maybe they make it, but they drink it and it turns them into…I don’t know, superbeings. Like they’re pure spirit. And powerful. Then they become enemies. One good, one evil.

Sounds cool. Then what happens?

I smiled. If you want to know how it ends, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

He laughed.

I can dig it. I’m Billy, by the way. Billy Soderbergh.

Connor Whelan.

He looked at his watch and glanced around before looking back to me. You hungry, dude?

Little Caesar’s (Pizza! Pizza!) stood about four blocks from the library. After filling out a library card application form, we set out for lunch. I walked and Billy biked at a walking pace beside me the whole way. We continued talking about our favorite books (he was also into R.L. Stine but found Bruce Coville more for kids), and he pointed out some of the finer points of Still Bayou after finding out that I was new and visiting. Across the way, for example, hung an old iron cast bridge (Tetanus Bridge Billy called it), ideal for jumping into the questionably shallow creek below. I made a mental note to reevaluate my courage for such an endeavor later.

Yeah, it’s my day off, Billy said as we walked through the big glass doors of Little Caesars. He waved to the guy behind the counter, a tall, bored type with a buzz cut. Billy didn’t get a wave back, and he stopped to contemplate his previous statement. I guess that’s lame. I mean, who goes to work when they don’t have to?

Nah, it’s cool. I was excited to be making friends with a guy who worked at a pizza place. He seemed like a good guy to know. I mean, it’s great pizza, right?

How about we find out? He walked over to the counter. "How are today’s selections, Chuck, my