Dandelion Tenacity

First, let me make this clear. I, Thyra “Dandelion” Teague, am real and no fictional wizard, regardless of what Auryn Rowe is writing in her latest online story chapters.

Hanzi called me at work today. “You didn’t tell me you knew the author of Rose and Crown. How about dinner tonight at my house?”

“I wish I did,” I said, “and yes, I read her latest story beginning. too. All right, but warn me if you’re serving macaroni and cheese so I can eat something substantial first.”

“You’d criticize a free meal?” he said. “I don’t care if you clean your plate. I’m not your mother. And bring dessert.”

Hanzi is nobody’s mother. In fact, between the years when he was the little boy next door to rediscovering him in my apartment complex, he transformed into a striking man with my sense of humor. Another asset—he’s familiar with my bizarre family, who even invited him to our Christmas Eve party.

After his chicken casserole and my cheesecake, I helped him with cleanup before we took coffee to his living room.

“Maybe Auryn Rowe knew Granny Nonna,” I said. “She’s the one who called me Dandelion after stories she told me. I wish I was a wizard. I’d do something about two of my coworkers.”

He sniggered. “What? Cast spells on them? Or call in your spriggan allies, like this latest story? Is that diary you carry full of spellcasting and Cornish creatures?”

As if I’d ever share my diary entries with him. As many times as he’s mentioned in the pages, he might think he’s important.

Hanzi and I drove together to Aksel’s house for my family’s traditional Christmas Eve party. I couldn’t shake a feeling of loss since Granny Nonna wasn’t with us anymore. I was sipping hot cider and feeling sorry for myself when Aksel hollered at me to open my gift.

“I thought we agreed not to exchange this year,” I said.

With Aksel’s three, Tyr’s four, and Erik’s two, there were too many children to buy for adults, as well, at least, on my salary.

“It’s from Granny Nonna,” Aksel said, “for you.”

Well, that brought the rest of the family and Hanzi crowding around me as Aksel handed me a package. Granny Nonna’s shaky handwriting had managed my name on the tag, but instead of Christmas paper, she’d used her favorite apron. For a few minutes, I couldn’t see through a blur of tears. Mom patted my back and Dad harumphed for me to get to it so we could line up for dinner.

Aksel and Marsie hosted the family every Christmas Eve since their house was large enough. We each brought holiday dishes to share, and Tyr delivered the fir tree the weekend before, a Norway spruce cut from his property, so all nine children could meet to decorate it before gobbling homemade Christmas cookies.

Around me, Christmas lights, garlands, and the annual Cornish bush made the living room festive. Carols played in the background, and every table top was covered with candy dishes, and plates of fudge and cookies.

“Hurry up, Thyra,” Erik said. “I can taste that pasty now.”

In case you didn’t know, Mom’s side of the family came from inland Cornwall, and most had owned farms. 

“I’m still waiting for stargazy pie,” Hanzi said.

I shuddered and untied the apron.

“Don’t tempt me,” Tyr said. “I have Granny’s old recipe.”

“Oh?” Hanzi said. “And where will you find pilchards?”

Granny Nonna’s gift was a leatherbound journal of Cornish legends called The Casting Tower and Other Tales. Inside the front cover, under an illustration of a wizards’ stronghold, she’d written: My dearest Dandelion, be tenacious, always, Granny.

This was a family heirloom, stories written by my Great-Aunt Elowen. Granny had shared many with me over the years—Kosfinel, a Cornish spriggan, guardian of a missing thyme spice jar from a step-back cupboard; Karrek, a gargoyle who helped overcome evil; Dandelion, shapeshifting magician from the Casting Tower, where Granny got my nickname. And others. 

Auryn Rowe’s new online story featured a wizard named Dandelion, sought by the devastating peryl who were determined to abolish the power of her Casting Tower. Maybe the author did know my family, since Elowen’s stories were original and never published.

Hanzi pulled on my arm to join the family buffet line, so I closed my gift until later.

I was crossing the parking lot after work, swinging my keyring around my finger, when a gust of wind blew past with the fragrance of thyme. There was no doubt about that spicy, leathery scent. I glanced around for any coworker carrying herbs when a hawk screeched. I looked up and inhaled so hard, I stumbled.

A tower rose over the horizon, not made of clouds, but stone. Tiny dark windows on countless levels made it look like the wizards’ stronghold picture in Granny’s book. I was trying to convince myself it was a mirage or fata morgana when something flew from the roof and banked around the structure.

Wings. Wings on a beast with a spiny tail and clawed feet flapped away. Thom rammed into me and I apologized. When I looked up again, there was no tower or cloud pattern, but the winged figure continued across the sky. Whatever the flying creature was, it was no hawk.

Mags at the bookstore nodded when I entered. I asked her if she had anything about gargoyles.

“Or Cornish legends, maybe?” I said. “Wizard diaries?”

She laughed. “You’re such a comedian. Not lately, but gargoyles? Maybe in the history section with European architecture.”

I found a heavy tome about cathedrals and stone, water-spouting guardians, so bought it and lugged it to my car. Also decided that coffee and blackberry cobbler would be worth a stop before I got home, and browsed medieval history with pre-dinner dessert. 

Gargoyles kept water from running down masonry walls and eroding mortar, and their ugly appearance was meant to scare away evil. They guarded buildings and those inside, were immortal, could shapeshift, fly, and direct water flow. 

Once home, I opened my great-aunt’s Cornish legends and stared at the picture inside the front cover. I hadn’t noticed the details before, but there was no doubt about gargoyles along the sides, or a winged creature circling a turret.

One story was named “True North of the Casting Tower.” 

Gogledd Gwir, the northern casting tower, held the oldest records concerning the Doeth—the Wise—with the beautiful Cysgodi, master of all casters, who promised to return when need was greatest. According to the Old Ones, she would fly from her tower’s cupola to challenge evil when all seemed lost, and summon her allies to help overcome any threat.

Curious about Auryn Rowe’s latest installment, I turned on my computer.

And called Hanzi.

We met at the Tin Mine Diner in Clipperton, famous locally for pasties and pastries. The town’s name put me in mind of sailing ships, but honored a local bank owner. The day was cold and blustery with sporadic rain, and the view of cattle pastures, occasional houses, and wooden storefronts added to the gloom. I jabbered about gargoyles, cloud towers, and Auryn Rowe’s Dandelion, who cast a spell to summon her Cornish goblins to help with the coming enemy horde.

We settled at a booth where I could see the dreary sky. Once we ordered, Hanzi teased me about spice jars and wizard towers until I relaxed, and laughed with him. 

“Maybe you’ve been working too hard or need to get out more,” he said, “which reminds me—”

I glanced at the window and choked on my coffee. “Did you see that?”

Hanzi turned. “What?”

The horrendous face was gone.

In Auryn Rowe’s story, the gargoyle Karrek had appeared at a window, but the wizard waved her away. I gritted my teeth.

“That is not real,” I said, “and I’m not a book character.”

Hanzi snorted. “If you were, the author would have changed stories by now.”

I related every strange, recent occurrence, and he reacted as expected.

“You ought to write your own stories,” he said, once he stopped laughing. “Introduce me to your creepy friends next time you see one. Now, as I was saying, how about lunch Tuesday? I want to try that new diner near your building.”

He trailed me when we left Tin Mine’s, repeating restaurant reviews, when something moved beside my car. I froze.

It had to be a gargoyle. Moving stone with a face ugly enough to frighten children.

“Karrek,” it croaked, “peryl.” It pointed at me. “Pystrier.”

“Pystrier the Wizard,” a title in Granny’s book.

I pinched myself. “Pystrier?”

It pointed to itself. “Karrek.”

I turned to Hanzi, who was gaping at the creature. “Hanzi, Karrek the Gargoyle. You did say to introduce you.”

“Kosfinel,” the gargoyle said. “Gelwel Kosfinel.”

Summon Kosfinel. That had been in Auryn Rowe’s latest episode.

Thunder cracked and rain fell. Karrek vanished.

I bolted for my car and gripped the steering wheel once inside. “You did see and hear that, right?”

Hanzi made choking sounds, but shook his head and tried again. “Well? Will you?”

I turned and stared at him. “Will I what? Call for a spriggan? A talking gargoyle’s not enough for you?”

Next morning, before work, I read the latest online installment.

Hanzi opened the main doors of my building. “We only have to walk two blocks. I tried to make reservations, but no luck. Still, it’s worth trying.”

I stumbled to a stop. “Did this building always have gargoyles?”

Overhead, an enormous stone head hung over a corner of the roof. I narrowed my eyes to focus. It resembled Karrek.

“Of course,” Hanzi said, “most of the city buildings do. You never noticed before?”

In Auryn Rowe’s current section, Dandelion decided that her band of spriggans would be enough to deal with the peryl, and sent her gargoyles back to their stations. I refused to believe that any of this weirdness was real, nor did I intend to be manipulated by a fantasy author. Still…

I tipped back my head. “Gelwel Karrek!”

Summon!

I ran into Hanzi’s back. 

“You’ve lost your mind,” he said, and shook his head. “It was only a matter of time—”

I shoved him. “Let’s find your diner before my lunch hour ends. Besides, you met her yesterday.”

“Her?”

I pushed him again. 

Auryn Rowe’s story, “Dandelion Tenacity,” wavered between goblins and gargoyles. Dandelion struggled with her spellcasting as the cloud of dark malevolence moved closer to her tower. Every time she attempted to summon spriggans, the spell faltered. Day by day, the episodes sounded more desperate. 

In the meantime, I saw gargoyles everywhere—on buildings, outside my windows, in illustrations on the internet. When I complained and proved it to the doubting Hanzi, he shrugged. 

“Well, you did summon one.”

Finally, Auryn Rowe’s Dandelion called on Cysgodi, legendary Master Wizard.

“…the beautiful Cysgodi, master of all casters, promised to return when need was greatest. According to the Old Ones, she would fly from her tower’s cupola to challenge that evil when all seemed lost, and summon her allies to help overcome any threat.”

This well-known author must have met Granny Nonna, or read Great-Aunt Elowen’s stories.

“…Time had run out and Dandelion stared out her window, high in the Casting Tower. Every spell had unraveled. Her spriggans hadn’t appeared, and it was too late to summon her gargoyles. Alone, she could not overcome the horde. Only Cysgodi could save her tower now…”

I was curious to know how the author would conclude her story, since she promised happy endings to each one. Hanzi argued with me that I was hampering the tower’s redemption, in spite of my insisting that it was a fantasy. 

“Why are you so stubborn?” he demanded, in my apartment. “This is not what your Granny meant, Dandelion. Call the blasted spriggans. You summoned the gargoyle and we both saw it. Her. Whatever.”

He was the one who’d lost his reasoning. Was he convinced that the current story was real, or that one of Auryn Rowe’s faithful readers was involved?

The next morning, a freak storm swirled over the city. Wind howled, hail pounded the sidewalks, and the power flickered. And it wasn’t my imagination—the gargoyle had moved closer to ground level. Auryn Rowe’s morning episode included the attack of the nightmare horde.

What did I have to lose?

I made my way down the staircase to the front of the building. The sky was dark with heavy clouds. Wind rattled the glass. I opened Granny’s book and turned to “True North of the Casting Tower.”

Impudent, bold, fearless, skilled in battle and spellcasting, the beautiful Cysgodi was more than a legend. She was a Master Wizard, the only sorcerer capable of opening amser-llwybr, time-paths, an unfailing method for overcoming any threat or enemy. To be able to travel back to the beginning and snuff out trouble before it formed had been the secret dream of many casters. A few had wasted years and skills trying to understand the concept. None could master it.

If I was going to be a story character, I’d choose to be Cysgodi.

I pushed my way outside, under the doorway extension and faced gogledd gwir, true north, where the best and oldest legends originated. Where Great-Aunt Elowen’s mother had been born, in the Scottish Border Country.

“I command the winds and rain and storm,” I shouted, as I repeated the spell in the book, “all blizzards cold, all breezes warm. Obey and converge, torrent and surge, open the amser-llwybr and expel, purge!”

Crack! Thunder opened the sky and light poured through. The storm dissipated. Wind died. The rain deluge trickled to a patter against the pavement. I closed Granny’s book.

“I still don’t believe it,” I muttered, when a stream of cold water poured over my head. Karrek closed her mouth and faded.

Hanzi printed the conclusion of “Tenacious Dandelion” and waved it at me over dinner. We’d driven to Tin Mine Diner and he made me repeat my steps until I regretted telling him.

“And you read the ending, right?” he said. “Dandelion summoned Cysgodi, Master Wizard, who banished the threat with a time-spell. Explain that, great sorceress.”

I opened my mouth to challenge his sanity when something tapped on the diner window.

Tangled, thick hair, grotesque features, and sharp teeth on dark, grinning faces. Cornish goblins, spriggans? 

Before I could speak, the faces disappeared. I decided to avoid the subject of rationality and finished my Cornish pasty.

Maybe I would start writing my own fantasy stories.

I had enough material for at least one.

“Whew,” Auryn said, and printed herself a copy of her latest online story. “I thought I’d never get this one done. I think I’ll stay away from using Dandelion for a while.” She turned her computer chair and stood. “Still, a missing thyme spice jar from an old Cornish step-back cupboard with an angry spriggan sounds enticing. What do you think?”

Her brother shrugged. “Why not? You can use the cupboard I bought at the auction as a model. It is Cornish, mid-eighteen-hundreds. Maybe it even has a guardian goblin.”

“Spriggan,” she said, “and I’ll start it next week.”