//------------------------------// // Chapter 38: Moondance // Story: Brightly Lit // by Penalt //------------------------------//     “...and just like that, we were ponies,” Lynn finished saying, about an hour later as her husband finally managed to start walking around the rec room with some confidence. “I have to admit, I’m a bit in shock,” Foxfire replied, perched half on Arnold’s lap as he sat cross-legged beside her on the floor.  “Up until now the only ones who could cast spells were either unicorns or people of faith.” “I always knew you were destined for heaven, Dear,” Ernie interjected, drawing a smiling blush from his wife.  “You’re my angel.” “How are you feeling, Ernie?” Arnold asked with naked curiosity.  “I know that once I got used to being a pony I felt stronger, more powerful.  You?” “Lighter,” Ernie answered, after a moment of introspection.  “Cleaner, and it feels like there is something just waiting for me to reach out and touch it.” “That’s your pegasus magic, Dad!” called Darter from his bedroom, which he was sharing with Iron Hoof for the night.  “You and Mom should go for a night flight and see what you can do.” “Bed!” Lynn called back.  “You two are supposed to be in bed and asleep.” “Sorry Mom,” Darter yelled back.  “Goodnight Mom, and you should really take Dad out flying.” “Good night,” Lynn repeated, rolling her eyes.   “You know,” Arnold said, with a wide grin, “if you two do want to go stretch those wings of yours, me and Foxfire can hold down the fort for a bit.” “You sure?” Ernie asked, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head to one side.  “We might be awhile.” “Go,” Foxfire answered, waving a hoof with a shoo’ing motion.  “Lynn’s never had a chance to really fly either. You two deserve some time.  Go.” “Yes, your Royal Unicorn-ness,” Lynn giggled, dropping an equine curtsy as light glinted off her glossy black fur.  “Far be it for us to disobey the command of the Witch-Queen of Brightly.” “Get out of here you two,” Foxfire mock ordered with a true smile, even as a part of her thrilled at the pretend obeisance.  “Or I’ll have you thrown into the dungeons. We have dungeons, do we not, my stallion?” “Of course, my Queen,” Arnold replied, barely holding his laughter back and not noticing the brief, predatory glint in Foxfire’s eyes.  “If not, we shall have your glorious legions make them for you.” Laughing, both darkly coloured pegasi made their way out of the house and into the backyard.  The skies had remained clear, and the moon shone down from a sky alive with stars with barely a breath of wind. “Right, so how do we do this?” Ernie queried his wife, shaking out his wings and looking along their feathered lengths. “I haven’t flown before,” Lynn admitted, stretching out her own pinions.  “It’s not like it’s sewing. Then I’d just plow right in.” “That you would,” Ernie replied, and a thoughtful look crossed his face.  “How did the kids put it? ‘Don’t think about it. Just do it’ they said.” “Don’t think.  Do,” Lynn repeated, and still holding her wings outwards she simply said, “Up.”   Her husband watched in amazement as a hundred little wind vortices appeared beneath his wife to lift her a dozen feet into the air.  Lynn hovered there, suspended between ground and sky with her face alive with wonder and joy. “It is sewing,” Lynn breathed, looking down at her husband.  “Just with wind and air instead of thread and fabric.” “Up,” Ernie commanded, frowning as nothing happened, nothing at all.  “Try flapping your wings next time, dear,” Lynn said, flapping her own wings up and down now even though Ernie could still see the little bits of wind coming off of her. “Fine.  Up!” Ernie commanded, again to no effect.  Growing frustrated, he growled it out once more.  “UP.” This time Ernie’s frustration let him stop thinking about how to fly and instead let his new instincts take over.  His wings moved in a powerful downstroke at the same time he also tapped into his own particular brand of pegasus empowerment.  The result being the surprised, newly minted pegasus finding himself launched a full twenty meters into the air as a sudden blast of wind and lightning ignited from his feathers.   “Whoa,” Ernie gasped, pumping his wings in a somewhat steady rhythm while he took in the abrupt marvel of being airborne under his own power.  “I knew you could do it,” Lynn said, flexing her own wings to rise up beside her husband.  “Shall we try some actual flying?” “Ready when you are,” Ernie answered, his confidence growing with every beat of his wings.   Together, wingtips barely inches apart, husband and wife moved forward.  At first they traveled at a speed scarcely faster than walking, but within five minutes they were moving as fast as a man could run.  In ten, their speed was as fast as cars on Brightly’s roads. After twenty minutes, they were moving as fast as all but the swiftest birds. That is when what had started out as a basic flight to learn their new bodies, became something else for the two ponies.  Ernie started off by doing a slow barrel roll around his wife, little sparklers streaming off his wings as he smiled his way through the maneuver.  Lynn reciprocated, only during her roll she kept one wingtip in constant contact with her husband’s body, tracing a slow circle around it. Ernie countered with a sideslip across his wife’s underside, his mane grazing across her and leaving a tickling charge of electricity in its wake.  From that point on the journey of the two pegasi stopped being a flight and became a dance. Every move was done with a gentle touch on the other. Every touch was greeted with a look of affection and the soul deep connection that comes from days, and weeks, and years, spent in the company of another. Two adults, still deeply in love after over a decade of marriage, reaffirmed their love and bond with each other as they soared across the heavens.  Lit by the moon, they soared together in a ballet of flight, dancing from one bit of light cloud to the next. Their eyes, thoughts and minds only on each other, as if they were the only two people in all the wide world. “For this, shall a man leave his father and his mother and cleave to his wife; and so they will no longer be two, but one flesh,” quoted Father Adamschek, as he looked up into the dark sky, his adapted eyes easily making out the skyborne pair, far above. “They do look like they’re enjoying themselves,” said his wife Natasha, coming out of the rectory to stand beside her own husband.  “Any idea who it is?” “Not a clue,” Addison replied, drawing an arm around his wife, and absently noting how there almost seemed to be stars glinting in her flowing hair.  “They’re too far away for me to tell, but they have given me an idea for Sunday’s sermon though.” “Oh, what are you going to go with?” Natasha asked, leaning into the embrace.  She knew that with two dignitaries in town, her husband had been having trouble coming up with a sermon worthy of the events of the coming Sunday. “That God accepts all,” Addison pronounced, his voice firm.  “No matter who we are, where we come from, or even what we are, God accepts all.” “What made you decide on that?” Natasha asked.  She always enjoyed hearing her husband’s thought processes. “God is love,” Addison answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  “That, up there. That’s love, and yet another sign that what’s happening here isn’t due to some evil force out to destroy us.” “You had better tell Godwinson that,” Natasha snorted.  “She’s still convinced that this is some kind of alien or demonic invasion.  Or better yet, a demonic alien invasion from beyond the stars.” “I don't know why she is so resistant to this,” Addison commented, as he enjoyed the warmth and closeness of his wife.  “I actually don’t know all that much about her, except that she came here about nine years ago, and was one of those who whipped up sentiment against Jean Pedersen.” “And she never really came into the picture until Jean’s name started getting mentioned around town in connection with all of this, “ Natasha mused, idly wondering why she wasn’t feeling the night’s chill.  “Couldn’t it be something in their past? Something Jean said or did early on to annoy that harridan?  “No idea,” Addison replied, shrugging.  “Let’s go in. It’s late and I’ve got to get working on that sermon.” “You go ahead,” Natasha demurred, looking upwards.  “I’m going to watch them for a little longer.” “I’ll put the kettle on for some tea,” the Anglican priest said, heading back inside with a last look upwards.     As it turned out, Dora Godwinson was also looking skyward and watching the two ponies frolic overhead.  In her case however, instead of shared joy and wonderment, she felt nothing but anger and contempt toward the ponies.  Muttering darkly, she stomped back into her home, only just keeping herself from slamming the door shut. Once in her kitchen, she grabbed up a copy of Brightly’s hard copy phone book and flipping to the blue pages, found what she sought.     “Good evening, Canadian Security Intelligence Service,” came a professional sounding voice a moment later.  “How may I direct your call?”     “Oh, thank goodness you people are still open,” Godwinson said, with a touch of excitement and nervousness.     “Yes Ma’am, we’re a 24/7 operation,” replied the same professional voice, without a hint of condescension.  “How may I direct your call?”     “Yes.  I need to report a threat to the Prime Minister,” Godwinson answered, trying to keep a breathless excitement from her voice.       “And is this a threat you personally are making, or are you making it on behalf of someone else?” the voice asked, still professional but with a slight hard edge to it.     “Oh, no no no,” Godwinson gasped, the shock of being accused herself completely removing her excitement at calling Canada’s spy agency.  “There are some people… some things here, that want to do terrible things to the Prime Minister. I had to call and warn you.”     “One moment, Ma’am,” said the voice.  “Let me transfer you to the right people.”     “Threat Desk,” a cool sounding female voice declared, a moment after Godwinson heard a series of clicks through her old phone.  “I understand you need to report a threat?”     “Yes!  Yes I do,” Godwinson exclaimed into the phone.  “My name is Dora Godwinson. I live in Brightly, BC.  There are, people, here, who want to do something terrible to Trudeau.”     “Can you give me any details, Ma’am?” the woman asked, not mentioning that the call had been traced almost instantly and the watch officer already had the location and registered name of the calling number.     “Yes.  I’m sure that the witch here wants to change the Prime Minister into a pony,” Godwinson stated, feeling a rush as she finally was able to tell an outside authority of the horror Brightly was becoming.  “I’m almost positive they want to attack him with the spell when he comes here on Sunday.”     “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” the CSIS watch officer replied, trying to maintain her composure.  Wackos could be harmless but they could also be very, very, dangerous. “There is a witch, in Brightly. She wants to attack Prime Minister Trudeau with a spell, to turn him into a small horse.  Is that correct?”     “No, not a little horse,” Godwinson shot back, anger surging as the idiot on the other end of the phone seemed unable to understand basic English.  “A pony. A magical little horse, about a meter high. They have powers. Terrible powers.”     “Little magical horse with terrible powers,” the Watch Officer repeated, even as she placed the call firmly into the low-threat queue.  However, it never hurt to be thorough. “Okay Ma’am, I think I’ve got that down. Any details you can provide me? Any names of those involved?  Ma’am? Ma’am?”     Silence echoed in the Watch Officer’s headset.  A quick glance at the call status section of her screen showed the words, “Disconnected at Source.”  The woman gave an amused snort and began to fill in the various data fields of the reporting form on her screen.  Once this was done any names would be run through CPIC, then the FBI and INTERPOL databases respectively.       The officer was just about to hit “send” on the form, when memory triggered.  Watch officers were selected for their ability to remain calm, sound calm and remember trivial bits of information and apply them at appropriate times.  The Premier of BC was also going to be in Brightly at the same time as the PM. A left of center federal leader and a very left-wing provincial leader in the same place, at the same time, a little over twenty-four hours from now.       With the rise of right-wing political terrorism in North America, a two-fer like that could be a tempting target for an extremist or an extremist group.  Although the disconnect on the other end was almost definitely someone realizing how insane they sounded, it also could be an addled mind that could only convey a serious situation in fantastical terms.  People in British Columbia were weird, after all.     Frowning, the watch officer flipped the priority from “Low” to “Urgent.”  It probably was nothing. The woman was probably on something, but there were enough red flags to warrant the increase in priority.  The officer sent the form and hoped she hadn’t just earned herself a down check in her next evaluation for wasting resources on low-grade threats.     “Hello?  Hello?” Godwinson called into her silent phone meanwhile, staring at it in disbelief.  “They… they hung up on me! Those idiots! Those complete and utter—”     “Ahem,” said a quiet male voice from nearby.     “AH!” the older woman yelled in surprise and whirled around to face the direction the voice had come from.       “Good evening,” Brian Cummins said, from where he stood in Godwinson’s open kitchen doorway.  “May I come in?”     “You!” Godwinson snarled, eyes flaring.  “What are you doing here? How dare you enter my home.”     “I haven’t entered yet,” Cummins replied, his eyes hard.  “However, I must insist that we have a chat.”     “W-what do you intend to do?” Godwinson asked, her mood shifting from anger to fear as she realized her usual bluster wasn’t going to stop Cummins, and her free hand plunged into a kitchen drawer as she hunted for a weapon.       “Calm down, I have no intention of hurting you,” Cummins answered the woman, and taking a step into the house he held up a pair of shears.  “I’m afraid your phone line has suffered mortal damage however.”     “You did that?” Godwinson angrily demanded, whipsawing from fear back to anger.  “You’re too late. I already told them what’s going on here. Now the government knows all about those unnatural freaks.”     “No,” Cummins replied, a humourless smile creasing his face.  “The government knows there’s a crackpot in a small town spouting off about impossible things.”     “They’ll believe me,” Godwinson declared, drawing herself up to her full, less than impressive height.  “They have to.”     “Ms. Godwinson, think about it,” Cummins advised, still with that same knife-narrow smile.  “A year ago, if someone had told you one of your neighbors was casting magic spells and turning people into little superhero horses, would you have believed them?”     “If that woman is involved,” Godwinson growled, “I would believe it and more.  She’s dangerous. A monster who should have been locked up.”     “Should have been?” Cummins asked, curiosity sparked.  “Past tense. There’s a history between you two, isn’t there?  What happened? Why do you hate Jean Pedersen?”     “That’s her maiden name,” Godwinson said, festering anger almost making her spit the words out.  “Her married name was Jean Krasnichuk.”     “Krasnichuk?” Cummins repeated, mind racing until his eyes lit up with recognition of the name.  “Krasnichuk! The case in Abbotsford, about ten years ago.”     “Ten years, four months and twelve days ago,” Godwinson supplied, her voice almost as hard as Cummins’ had been.  “The day when she… when she…” The older woman fell silent, jaw working as emotion closed her throat.     “I remember that case,” Cummins told the woman, nodding in understanding.  “I was working at Surrey PreTrial and it was the talk of the place. The man who died, he was a relative of yours?”     “My nephew,” Godwinson choked out.  “She should be rotting in a cell for the rest of her life for what she did to my sister’s son.”     “I saw a lot of the evidence from that case,” Cummins commented, now understanding the bone deep hatred Godwinson felt.  “I spoke to several of the officers involved. Your nephew deserved what happened to him. He was a monster and Jean did what she had to do.  What any mother would have done to protect her babies.”     “No one deserves what she did to him!” Godwinson yelled back, tears of rage and sorrow coming to her eyes now.  “I changed my name so she wouldn’t recognize me. I followed her here. I’ve been watching her all this time, waiting for her to do something that I can get her for.  Some way to get back at her for what she did to my family. By the time I’m through with her, she’ll be lucky if all that happens to her is spending the rest of her life in a cage.”     “It seems Medevac was wrong,” Cummins sighed, making Godwinson blink at the non-sequitur.  “It looks like there are monsters in Brightly after all.”     “I’m glad you understand,” Godwinson replied, nodding as Cummins appeared to agree with her. “Jean Pedersen is a monster.”     “Yes, she is,” Cummins agreed, before fixing Godwinson with a gimlet eye, “and so are you.”     “How dare you!” Godwinson sneered back.  “She’s a poisoner. A murderess. She deserves to pay for what she did.  I’m nothing like that.”     “You’ve murdered ten years of your own life, trying to poison hers,” Cummins said, taking a step forward.  “She’s spent the past ten years trying to become a better person, and doing a better job of it than I have.  You’ve just spent that time eating yourself hollow. There’s almost nothing left of you except a bitter, angry, old shell of a woman.  And it’s my job to stop you.”     “Stay back!” the fat woman commanded, brandishing a large kitchen knife her hand had found in the drawer.  “Don’t make me use this!”     “Please,”  Cummins replied calmly, rolling his eyes.  “I said I had no intention of bringing you physical harm and I’m not going to, unless you try to come at me with that bread slicer.”     “What are you going to do then?” Godwinson asked, clutching her chest with one hand and the knife with the other.     “Make sure you understand that if you try anything that I consider even remotely hostile to Jean or any of the ponies, particularly over the next two days, I’m going to stop you,” Cummins said, bedrock determination in his eyes.  “Bella Bella has a psychiatric ward. I’m a respected member of the press, and the mayor is a civil authority. Together, we can contact Northern Health Authority and have you placed on an involuntary psychiatric hold.”     “What?” the woman asked, unable to believe her ears.  “You can’t!”     “Ms. Godwinson is suffering from psychotic breaks, delusions and visual hallucinations,” Cummins recited, from something obviously pre-prepared.  “She is a danger to herself and others, so we request she be placed under a seventy-two hour psychiatric hold order for assessment and evaluation.”     “You.  You can’t!” Godwinson sputtered, aghast.  “No one would believe you that I’m crazy.”     “Respected members of the community,” Cummins reminded Godwinson, allowing himself just a small smirk of satisfaction.  “Once you are in the system it wouldn’t be hard at all for your records to be ‘lost’ or for your evaluation to say that you need substantial, long-term therapy.”     “You’re bluffing,” the would-be avenger replied, trying to bluff her way back to a position of strength.     “The truth is, you do need therapy,” Cummins tossed back, letting his smirk grow into a smile.  “You are obsessive, vengeful, and malignant. Any member of the mental health community would see it a mile off.  Combine it with your ‘delusion’ of ponies, and I guarantee you won’t see the outside of a rubber room for a long, long time.”     “But ponies are real,” Godwinson riposted, desperately.  “Once you tell everyone about them, people will know I’m telling the truth.”     “If you’re already in a straightjacket and pumped full of thorazine,” Cummins chuckled, “no one is really going to care, or check, if what you said before was right or not.  All they’ll care about is that they have another patient to deal with.”     “So you’re going to protect her,” Godwinson replied, deflating and defeated.  “She gets away with it, again.”     “If by ‘it’ you mean doing a reasonable thing in an unreasonable situation, then yes,” Cummins confirmed.  “However, if she does become a true monster. A monster like me, or you. If she acts on that, then I’ll be there to stop her too. Like I have with you, if I can.  In other ways, if I can’t.”     “Get out of my home,” the woman ordered, in a small and tired voice.  “Just get out.”     “Of course,” Cummins said with a nod, as he backed out of the kitchen door.  “Have a pleasant evening.”     Godwinson spent the next twenty minutes after locking her door sitting at her kitchen table, and cursing Jean Pedersen, her children, and every pony in Brightly with a continuous stream of invective.  She poured out her impotent rage and hunger for vengeance in a torrent of vitriol that would have burned a path clear to Tartarus, if such a thing were at all possible.      That powerful anger merged with the ever growing degree of magic in and around Brightly.  Empowered, it reached outward, bright as a flare to beings of spirit and magic. That baneful beacon attracted the notice of an ancient spirit of hunger and fury who had dwelled in these lands for millennia. Born of the time when the great glaciers had covered all this land except for the one small island where men had stood their ground against Eternal Winter.  That ancient spirit of cruel and greedy hunger of a hundered myths and legends had found its waning strength rekindled. Dzunukwa, Wechuge, and Windigo were some of the names it had been known as by those who had fought against its terrible power to sever the bonds within a community.   That spirit moved toward Godwinson’s beacon of need, of a hunger for vengeance and an outrage that could never be satisfied.  It looked at the woman at her kitchen table and found her soul to be a match for its own. Satisfied with what it saw, the insubstantial being moved forward to meet with a kindred spirit.