Rosario and Annwn - Part 1

Rosario and Annwn - Part 1

The Peacock King didn’t stay long in England. In fact, he had hardly landed before he was on his way to Wales, zigzagging across the countryside in a manner that would have made him extremely difficult to follow if not for the Csodaszarvas. As I tracked him, I sent a silent thanks to the Hungarians, Hunor and Magor, and wondered if they heard.

The Csodaszarvas and I tracked him as far as Tywyn, and, feeling that the Peacock King was going to stay in the general area, I put the statuette away. The twins, when they had offered it as a reward, had told me that it would grant two wishes and answer one question. I’d already used a wish in Jamaica, and now I had finished off the other one, leaving only the question. The statuette seemed to be finely tuned to this - where it had been brilliant white at the beginning, it had lost its shine after the first wish, and now it was a dirty greyish white color, crumbling a little around the edges. It felt heavier, too, as if the energy had been supporting it, and now it was becoming deadweight. Despite having known it would happen - well, not exactly - it worried me, and I found myself reaching into my backpack to worry at it with my fingers.

It had been bad enough in England, that worry, but when I arrived in Wales, something changed. No sooner had my train crossed the border than I began to feel a strange tugging at me; it felt like a tiny hook buried in the back of my neck, close to where spine meets skull but deep. I kept catching myself reaching back and scratching at the spot, because it was driving me mad. The last time I’d experience that feeling, it was just before my childhood home in Kansas had been burned down, which didn’t mean anything, but I still didn’t like it. By the time my train had stopped, I was a jittery mess, and nearly forgot my suitcase. As I left the Tywyn station, however, I got a surprise that wasn’t quite so gloomy. Standing under an umbrella that looked strong enough to withstand a hurricane, a young woman with stick-straight hair was waiting, holding up a card with my name on it in bold letters.

As I neared her, she peered at me through large, thick glasses, then beamed and stuffed the card into her purse. “Miss Vinci?” she called.

“That’s me,” I said, standing beside her. The rain was heavy, but my bags and coat were waterproofed, as was the floppy olive green hat that had temporarily replaced my stiff black one. I jiggled one of my knees, tense and anxious.

She looked positively beside herself with glee, and held a hand out to me. “I’m Jane Bowen, but you can call me Jenny,” she said. “I’m just a secretary, but I’ve heard so much about you, and my boss would simply love it if you would join him for supper tonight.”

I shook her hand, puzzled, and didn’t notice that my nervous energy was starting to fade away. “Who is your boss?” I asked, as she leaned down to take my duffel bag from me.

“Oof!” she said, cheerfully, then smiled and led the way to a black truck, holding out the umbrella so that I wouldn’t get drenched further. “My boss is Dewi Jones - we call him Mr. D - and he’s a wizard!”

I stopped dead, but she didn’t see it, for we had reached the truck and she was putting my bag in the back seat. “A wizard?” I echoed, not sure I’d heard right. “A real one?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching for my suitcase. I let her take it, then climbed into the truck. She got in on the other side and started it up as I buckled myself in. “I know it’s disrespectful to say it,” she added conspiratorially, “but sometimes I think Mr. D could give old Merlin a run for his money.”



I had been expecting a gloomy sort of mansion, but we arrived instead at a farmhouse. The rain had let up by then, and as we squelched up the gravel path to the front door, I could hear singing in the kitchen. A little off-key, but pleasant enough, and as we entered, the singing ceased and a young boy, no older than twelve, came to greet us. He held a ladle in his hand, a simple apron on over jeans and a shirt, with an air to him that brought to mind tales of Gwion, the boy who became Taliesin. Unable to resist, I glanced at his fingers, and saw little burn scars on the side of a finger that was attached to the hand holding the ladle. He caught me looking and smiled, then returned to put the ladle down so that he could help Jenny, who was struggling to get her raincoat off.

“Thank you, Caerwyn,” she said gratefully as the offending garment was finally tugged free. He gave her a questioning look, and she nodded enthusiastically. “This is she! The real Rosario Vinci!”

He gave me an admiring glance, but as Jenny turned away, chirping merrily, he winked at me, then offered to take my coat and hat. I allowed him to take the hat, but I hung up my coat myself, not wanting the boy to get soaked.

“Caerwyn, be a dear and go get Mr. D? I’ll show Rosario where she can leave her bags,” Jenny said, and the boy was gone in the blink of an eye. The skinny girl picked up both my suitcase and duffel bag and marched to a spare room that had been prepared. It was a smallish house, but there were four bedrooms. I rubbed the back of my neck again and wondered if anyone other than Jenny, Caerwyn, and the mysterious Mr. D lived there.

“...he’s wonderful, really,” Jenny was saying to me as she set my things beside the bed in the small room. “He’s mute, you know. But it’s strange how easy it is to communicate with Caerwyn, I think he’s just very expressive, his hands or something. He cooks better than I do!”

“Is that so,” I said, feeling my lips curve into a smile. Jenny’s chatty, easygoing nature put me at ease, though I kept in mind that it might be a ploy. My gut had nothing to say on the matter - perhaps it was as torn as I was.

I was led into the kitchen, and as I took a seat at the kitchen table, a large man came in. He was a stocky, heavily muscled about six feet and two inches tall, with brown, weathered skin and a face that made him look older than he was. He was beardless, but had a heavy mustache, and his dark brown hair was wind-tousled and slightly golden around the edges with sun. Given that he lived in Wales, I figured that he was one of those people who had hair that lightened easily.

“Jenny, you’ve returned!” he boomed, and I could’ve sworn some of the dishes in the cupboards rattled. “Welcome back, my girl.”

Jenny flung herself at him and hugged him, having mild difficulty getting her arms around his tree trunk of a waist. “Mr. D!” she cried happily.

Caerwyn slipped past them, Mr. D ruffling his pale hair as he went by, and the boy shot a grin back at him before going to stir the large pot on the counter. Jenny chattered at Mr. D for a minute or so, and he listened patiently, offering words here and there and generally seeming to enjoy the conversation. I watched them, feeling wonderfully invisible, until Caerwyn dished the thick stew into an enormous tureen - Italian make, I was surprised to see - and brought it to the table. Seeing this, Jenny immediately detached herself from Mr. D and took out bowls and spoons, and soon the three of them had joined me at the table, Caerwyn setting out tea as well.

“Another boy lives here with us,” Jenny confided to me, “but he’s in town, told us he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. His name is Mort, great kid.”

“I see,” I said, flashing her a smile. She beamed back, and we tucked in.

The stew was unlike any other I’d ever tasted in that it tasted like every other stew I’ve ever had. Admittedly, I’ve only had a few different stews, but somehow, the essence of all of them had been captured in this one. As I ate, I attempted to discern what seasonings had been used to make it do that, but for once, I was at a loss. I had a feeling that it wasn’t special seasoning at all, and at this point, I supposed that wouldn’t be too shocking.

My spoon clanked against the side of the bowl, and I realized that it was empty. I stared at it, surprised, then glanced up. My companions seemed amused, and I grinned sheepishly.

“It’s as if you haven’t eaten in days,” Mr. D said, laughing.

“Well, maybe not that long,” I said with a smile. “It’s just very delicious.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Caerwyn’s face light up, pleased at the compliment.

“You can have seconds, if you like,” my host said, gesturing to the tureen. “Caerwyn always makes plenty.”

I felt somewhat embarrassed as I took a second helping, but I ate much slower now, focusing less on the contents of the stew and more on my companions. Jenny ate as enthusiastically as I had a moment before, though slower, and in between bites she dabbed at her mouth with the napkin, even if she hadn’t got any food on her. Mr. D ate with abandon, unconcerned about mess but somehow not spilling a drop. In contrast, Caerwyn ate little, and cut the potato in his stew into small chunks with the side of his spoon. I noticed that he didn’t eat any of the meat, but readily drank the broth.

As we neared the end of the meal, we heard a door open, followed by the clomping of boots. Moments later, a boy of about seventeen came into the room, his plain face solemn, and stopped short at the sight of me. Mr. D smiled at him, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Mort, you’re back early,” he said. “Pull up a chair.”

Caerwyn got up to make room, and took his bowl to the sink as Mort replaced him. “Thinks evened out,” Mort said in a low voice, and looked at me curiously. “Is this the one?”

“Yes!” Jenny said excitedly, getting up to take her bowl to the sink as well. “Do you want a bowl, Mort?”

The boy started to shake his head, glanced at Caerwyn, then nodded. “Sure, if Caerwyn made it,” he said.

Jenny made a face at him. “You know he’s the only one who cooks!” she exclaimed, getting a clean bowl out of the cupboard and bringing it over.

“My stomach will never forget your cooking,” Mort told her seriously, but his mouth twitched. She pouted at him, then realized she’d forgotten his spoon and went to get one.

“So, Miss Vinci,” Mr. D said, drawing my attention away from the others, “no doubt you’re wondering why we invited you here.”

“I sure am,” I said readily, and sipped my tea. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed it, that really was a fantastic meal, and the company has been fantastic.”

He looked pleased, then sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “Well, thank you,” he said. “The truth is, a rumor reached our ears, recently. Apparently, a young woman named Rosario Vinci defeated a powerful demon in Jamaica, then helped wipe out the entire clan of zilants. We were then told that she was coming here, and, well, what luck it was that you came right to Tywyn! So we had to invite you over, to find out if the rumors were true.”

I stared and set my cup down. “How on earth did you hear about that?” I asked.

“Our Jamaican source was Sarah, Ol’ Tom’s wife,” he said, ticking off fingers as he named a different person. “The other was Baba Yaga. We learned you were in the UK from our English contact, William, and then that you were coming here from the woman you purchased your train ticket from, Eileen.”

“You’re widely spread out,” I said, impressed. I was relieved, though, that he didn’t seem to know about the Procession or the Hungarians. “Who exactly are you, anyway?”

“We’ve been called many names throughout the ages, but the easiest term, I suppose, is ‘witches’,” Mr. D said.

If he was hoping for gasps of shock, he didn’t get it, and he almost looked a little disappointed. Mort shot me another curious glance. “So are you an organization of some kind?” I asked. “Since you have contacts, I mean.”

“Something like that,” Mr. D said, the disappointment fading. “For a long time, we kept to our own countries. However, in the mid 1970s, we began to establish contact. According to lore passed down to us all, witches were united up until the late 1200s, until they split up for some obscure reason. My friend Aubrey and I had the idea to reunite everyone, and use that network to take in those with power that they couldn’t understand. That’s where Jenny, Caerwyn, and Mort come in.”

“I was an arsonist,” Mort confessed in his quiet voice. “Didn’t know what was wrong with me. Thought I was a freak.” He shrugged, then got up to take his empty bowl to the sink. Jenny had returned to the table during the talk, but Caerwyn had remained up to put the remnants of the stew away. He was vigorously scrubbing at the pot, with little effect, since he wasn’t very tall. Mort wordlessly took over, and the other boy gratefully gave up the venture in favor of washing Mort’s dishes instead.

“Mr. D took all of us in when we were children,” Jenny told me, smiling and resting her arms on the table. “All of us are orphans, though I have an uncle up in Scotland.”

“Were children? You still are,” Mr. D said, smiling.

Jenny scowled at him with mock ferocity. “I’m thirty-four now, Mr. D!” she said.

That surprised me, because Jenny barely looked twenty. I must have made a strange face, because she caught on and grinned. “I don’t look it,” she said, “but I really am. I’ll be thirty-five in December.”

“When you’re seventy, you’re going to look like you’re in your mid forties,” I predicted, shaking my head. “You could make a fortune from cloning your genes and selling them to those who age poorly.”

She giggled at the thought. “You flatterer,” she accused. “Anyway, in his excitement to tell you about his project, Mr. D forgot to ask if you’d like to stay here, instead of at a hotel.” Mr. D mock glared at her, and she grinned at him. “Sorry, Mr. D, but you were taking too long!”

“I’d love to stay,” I confessed. “I’m a little tired of hotels. Would you like me to pay rent, or help with chores?”

“Not at all,” Mr. D said, and smiled at me almost apologetically. “Though there is something I could use your help with.”

He asked Jenny to prepare the spare room for me, and she was off like a shot. Leaving Caerwyn and Mort in the kitchen, Mr. D and I went out to stand on the porch. He lit a cigarette, then began to explain.

“We’re all of us decently powerful, and can usually take care of ourselves. However,” he confessed, “there are some things we just cannot handle. It’s easier for us to deal with humans, animals, inanimate objects, maybe a ghost or two, than it is for us to take on the more powerful supernatural beings that are out there.”

He gestured to the looming mountains with his cigarette. “Unfortunately, I unknowingly landed us in an area that is full of things that we can’t handle. So far, nothing’s come after us, but recently, Mort and Caerwyn saw a ceffyl dŵr up by Tal-y-llyn Lake. They got away before it spotted them, but the next day there were two more sightings out at sea.“

“So what is it you would like me to do?” I asked.

Mr. D smoked in silence for a moment, then sighed softly. “I would like you to talk to Arawn,” he said. “As far as I know, he’s the only one who can tell us what’s going on, and possibly provide protection.”

“Arawn,” I repeated, eyes widening. “Not the king of Annwn?”

“The very same,” Mr. D said, clearly surprised that I had recognized the name.

I didn’t even pause to think about it, because my gut was practically screaming at me. “I accept,” I said, smiling. “Any idea where I can find him?”



It was a beautiful clear day when Jenny and I set out the next morning, but we brought oilskin coats just in case. Jenny had insisted on coming along, not wanting me to be out all alone, and she could be of use if we got turned around. We were scaling Cader Idris, sticking to the better-known paths for the time being. Mr. D had said that we could find Arawn at the top of the mountain around this time of month, so it was highly likely that we would find him. On the other hand, I was curious as to why Mr. D knew didn’t seek out Arawn himself. A past feud with him, perhaps?

That was what I was thinking about when I heard a bicycle. Jenny heard it, too, and we moved to the side of the path, turning to see who it was as we did. We both expected to see a tourist, but instead found ourselves looking at a very surprised young Indian man. He came to an abrupt stop and stared at us, and we stared back.

“What are you doing here?” the Peacock King asked me, frowning. He wore the same pristine clothes I had last seen him wearing, though the shoes were a little more scuffed. He wore a warm, fashionable coat, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Perched on his head was a tweed flat cap that looked out of place on him, but also a little endearing. It annoyed me that it was probably done on purpose.

“Going to see someone,” I replied vaguely. “What are you doing here?”

“The same,” he replied, eyeing me warily. “I’m trying to recover my father’s sword. My sources tell me that Arawn knows its location.”

Jenny jumped in surprise upon hearing Arawn’s name, and the Peacock King shifted his gaze from myself to her, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“I’m Jane Bowen,” she said, almost shyly. “Pleased to meet you.”

He gave her a smile that was both charming and disgustingly - to me, at least - arrogant. “The pleasure is all mine,” he said. “I am the Peacock King.”

My companion gaped at him, then uttered a squeal of delight. “The Peacock King? I’ve heard all about you!” she cried, and began to chatter about the stories she’d heard. I could practically see his ego inflating even further, and after a moment or two, I grasped Jenny by the elbow.

“Jenny,” I said, gently, “we need to go, remember?”

“Oh, right!” she said brightly, and added to the Peacock King, “We’re going to see Arawn too, you know. Why don’t you come with?”

I liked Jenny, but I could have quite happily strangled her just then - especially when he agreed.