Merlin Slept Here

Merlin Slept Here

Book 1 of the Wizards’ Inn Series

By Rob Summers

Copyright 2013 by Rob Summers

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Mary Beth

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Becoming an Innkeeper

Chapter 2: Basic Innkeeping

Chapter 3: Investigating Your Inn’s History

Chapter 4: Advanced Innkeeping

Chapter 5: Adapting to Severe Weather

Chapter 6: Miscounting Your Guests

Chapter 7: Very Advanced Innkeeping

Chapter 8: Accommodating Problem Guests

Chapter 9: Tactful Handling of Problem Guests

Chapter 10: Utilizing Windfall Profits

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Chapter 1: Becoming an Innkeeper

She turned them into pigs by a stroke of her wand….

—Homer

I’m what you may call a travel agent, and I have selected your house as a prime possibility for one of our inns. Actually, I’m sure enough to offer you the, uh, the post of service.

Now wait a minute, Bob said to the stranger, who had just introduced himself as Mark Stringer and had taken a seat across from him in a booth in the Quali-Mart deli. Are you wanting to buy the house or offer me a job or what? My grandfather owns the house.

I offer you a position of service, I have said. This man in his forties, with his German accent, gray suit, and white shirt, both sounded and looked a bit stiff, very stiff for rural Indiana. And why did he keep glancing at his watch? A young man like you, and I believe you work only part time here, he gestured dismissively at the premises of the Quali-Mart, you need something to fill your time productively. I am offering you the distinction of becoming one of our innkeepers. This is not a paid position, but it is very rewarding in other ways, both interesting and enlightening. Also, you may receive tips and presents of an odd sort—souvenirs of far off places.

Bob took off his red Quali-Mart cap, ran a hand over his short, light hair, and grinned. Mister Stringer, nobody’s going to come stay at my place, not even if they’re from this area, let alone far off places. I’m on a back road.

"Ja, indeed, I have just been there. But our guests do not come to you by common roads. Furthermore, it’s best that our inns be isolated. Your house is far from any neighbor’s. Yet it is spacious."

I don’t know what kind of guests you’re talking about, but my house has no air conditioning, no phones in the bedrooms, and only one bathroom; and I don’t have the money to—did you say I don’t get paid anything for this?

Unfortunately, no, Stringer said with a shrug. You see, our service’s guests tend to be poor, and even if they have a bit of money, it is seldom in your United States dollars but in various foreign currencies.

Bob glanced at the middle-aged woman who was working behind the deli counter. Had Wanda noticed that he was talking to this odd, older guy? Did she or anyone at the Mart know anything about him? In the little town of Mercury, in Rayburn County, strangers were always noticed and usually were asked friendly but persistent questions.

OK, no money. Whatever. This is just crazy enough that I want to hear more.

It isn’t crazy, Stringer insisted. I make a serious offer. So serious that, another glance at his watch, I would like to settle the matter now. Perhaps we could go to your house and finish speaking there?

Not till my shift’s over, and that’s about another hour after this break. Did you say you’ve been there?

"Ja, I was looking for you, or rather for whoever might live there. When I found no one, I walked the road till I came to your neighbors’ house, a Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield, and they informed me that you would probably be here, at your work. Mr. Wakefield was good enough to drive me here."

What happened to your car? Bob asked.

I have none.

Bob took this in. So, uh, how did you get to my house?

Mr. Stringer stood up. Let us continue our discussion when we are there. You will take me there, not so?

Bob laughed. Sure, in an hour like I told you. I got to get back to work, sir.

After restocking lawn chairs, portable grills, bags of charcoal, and kiddy pools, Bob clocked out and headed back to the deli to see if Stringer was still there. On the way he passed the toy department, where three girl clerks were standing near a large cardboard box open at the top and crammed with hula-hoops. They were chatting with one another while one of them lazily straightened a few croquet sets. Bob had only lived in this area for two weeks and so had no more than an acquaintance with the other Quali-Mart workers and not even that with some of them. One of these girls he could not remember having seen before, but now she caught his eye. He slowed his walk and glanced her way repeatedly.

She was standing half turned from him, a rather pretty girl, short and somewhat heavy. Shoulder-length brown hair. He heard her laughing a gurgling sort of laugh. Something about the way she stood, feet apart, hands in the pockets of her Quali-Mart apron top, gave him the suggestion that she felt secure. Not just presently secure but secure for life, secure anywhere. He had to move on or be noticed, but he kept her image in his mind. What a girl. Unexpectedly, he found himself imagining being married to her, to a gurgle-laughed, sweet natured, peaceful girl. Someone with no pretences, no complications to her. But no, she was probably taken.

Stringer was still in the booth at the deli.

As Bob sat down across from him, the older man spoke abruptly, almost rudely. Will you accept the position? I must go to my next meeting.

Bob smiled and shook his head. You’re an interesting guy, Mr. Stringer, but you’ll have to tell me more than you have. This could have to do with crime or anything, maybe with drugs. There are some meth labs around here that—

No, you are quite mistaken! Our travelers do important work, good work for various communities. I am in a great hurry. I try to make a way for them. What do you want to know?

Well, who they are.

They are—they are people with unusual abilities. Most of them will dress oddly to your eyes, speak with accents. If, uh, you find them doing or bringing about odd things, then as a good innkeeper you must take no notice of it. Remember that.

What kind of odd things?

The German’s face reddened slightly and he hesitated. Well, for instance, making a fire float through the air or—or perhaps to make things appear and disappear.

Bob’s brow wrinkled. "Who are these people?"

Stringer turned his gaze away slightly. "They have names they call themselves. Longaevi for instance, or the Chosen. When Bob did not respond to this, he continued, slowly choosing his words. The Chosen, ja wohl. They are those selected to exercise power over nature. Their strength, it is in such things as song, light, wisdom, healing, concealment, protection. They do untold good everywhere, but it is necessary that they have help. Perhaps you know the word Magi?"

Bob’s face cleared and he smiled. Wizards! You mean they’re wizards.

I did not say wizards, Stringer said sharply. That would be a serious misconception.

Yeah, well that’s what I’d call them, Bob said triumphantly, and I’ve read a whopping lot of fantasy novels about that stuff. You want me to keep an inn for wizards!

"You may call them whatever you please if you will, bitte, agree to do this."

Bob stood up laughing. Mister, if you can bring real wizards to my house, then sure, I’ll keep them overnight. Sounds like great fun. Only, let’s see you do it.

You are committed then, Stringer said. I need merely give you a few instructions. You’ll take me back to your house?

Sure, come on. My car’s parked in back.

From his six-foot-three height Bob looked down at Mr. Stringer and gestured toward the living room of the old farmhouse at 16024 Grantham Road, with its discolored wallpaper and shabby carpet. Pretty run down, I know, but I haven’t had time or money to do much with it yet. I did mend the screens in the windows. Sorry about how hot it is in here, by the way. Actually, we’re lucky today because the wind’s right so you can’t smell the landfill. I like it here, even though the power goes out every time we have a storm. You know, the main part of the house dates back to the Civil War.

Old as the Civil War, yes. This I know well, Stringer said without looking around. Old houses are good.

How did you know it’s that old? Did the Wakefields tell you? Say, feel free to take your jacket off.

The German did not remove it. I have just time to settle things and go. Listen carefully. You will have guests on most evenings, usually just one at a time. Seldom more than one will stay each night, understand? So they attract little or no attention. And English speaking. Both for their sake and for yours, I have taken trouble to see that they will be mostly English speaking, though many will be foreigners. He paused. Some will be not at all usual in appearance. Do not be troubled by odd disguises. He looked as if he expected Bob to question this but hoped he would not. Let us go to your front door now.

OK, I’ll bite. What kind of disguises? Bob said, following him.

Don’t let such things trouble you. Treat all guests with the same care and courtesy. We are expected to give good service. It is the pride of our calling.

Whose calling? What’s the name of this business, anyway?

It is not a business, it is a call to service. We have no name. Our organization is very old, very. Stringer had succeeded in drawing Bob out the front door and now pointed to an unused hook above the steps to the open porch. Listen. I instruct you. Immediately you must make a wooden sign and hang it there. It must be made from wood grown on this property, is that clear?

Bob was once more laughing. I can do it. I have a chain saw. But what should the sign say?

It can say anything, it makes no difference. It is the homegrown wood, not what the sign says, that lets the wise know they are in the right place.

The ‘wise,’ that’s like the same as ‘wizard,’ right?"

This time Herr Stringer stamped his foot, making the old boards of the porch resound. Enough of wizards. The guests are the Chosen, the Magi. Besides, you don’t pay attention.

Sure I do. A sign made of homegrown wood. Message doesn’t matter.

Very good! Do it at once when I leave. You have little time because your first guest will arrive this evening.

Bob just smiled and said nothing. This was fun. The man seemed to be mad, and of course, no one would come. A shame too, since Bob wanted some adventure in his life. After his father’s death, money for college had dried up, so that midway through his sophomore year he had had to give up on pursuing an Aviation major. Then later, at a time when he had not yet promised his Grandpa Dan that he would take care of this house, he had planned to enlist in the Air Force. But the promise had been made, and here he was, four miles out from Mercury, which itself was nowhere. He wanted something dangerous, something exciting in his life. Yes, too bad there was nothing remotely exciting here; but Stringer’s kookiness was at least entertaining.

Great, somebody comes this evening, Bob said. So should I feed this person?

No, he will arrive too late for that, they all will, but you must feed him in the morning. It’s one of the rules.

Oh, there are rules?

Yes, here. From a jacket pocket Stringer removed a stiff card of about five by seven inches and extended it to him.

In typed letters it read:

The Seven Rules of Sound Innkeeping

1. Only a true guest may stay overnight.

(Exceptions are the innkeeper’s family and other innkeepers.)

2. No true guest must ever be turned away—not if the inn is burning.

3. Never charge a guest.

4. No one must ever sleep on the floor.

5. No guest leaves the inn hungry.

6. Never close the inn.

7. All guests must leave the inn alive.

Stringer waited until Bob had giggled his way through the list. Keep that, he told him sullenly. As for matters not covered by the rules, just use common sense.

Bob looked up from the card. How am I supposed to know who’s a wizard—I mean, a true guest? Will they wear pointed hats and carry wands?

Please, don’t pain me. That’s all nonsense you learned from comic books. As I’ve said, their appearance may be unusual, even strikingly unusual, but an innkeeper in this service will be able to recognize his true guests. Now, I want to loan you something which will so enable you. The German reached inside his suit jacket and extracted a stick ten or twelve inches long, about an inch thick, and slightly forked at the end. I picked this up in my travels, he said. Something from far away. You will press it to your ear, please.

Bob laid the card on the arm of a wicker chair and took the stick, which was as plain as if Stringer had just picked it up from the ground. Perhaps he had, Bob thought, in the nearby woods. Afraid of being made to look a fool, he did not put it to his ear.

What’s this, a wand?

No, it’s not a wand. Stringer said. Put aside such thoughts.

Bob grinned and tapped it against his own forehead. Poof, I’m a chipmunk. OK, it’s not a wand. So what am I gonna hear?

Stringer met his gaze with an expression that Bob could not read, but it was certainly not stiff, nor purposeful. For a moment he seemed softened. It’s something I hesitate even to loan. I have kept it by me for years. Go ahead.

Holding it like a telephone, Bob slowly lifted the stick till it touched his ear. In a moment his world changed irrecoverably. He stood still, staring at Stringer but hardly seeing him. After a minute or two, he lowered the stick. He was breathing a little hard.

What is that? he asked, as if the question was torn from him.

I want you to understand that the stick itself is nothing; it is only a stick. But, you see, I once traveled to near the farthest edge of time, to very near the end of time. I hope you understand. In that hour the great Golden Legion is singing and their singing enters into everything, every stick and stone. If I had been able to stay somewhat longer, it would have entered into me. This stick, which I picked up there, is soaked with their song, and what you hear is merely its echo, as it were. You will note the odd result that, though you can hear nothing when the stick is an inch from your ear, let it touch you and the song is heard very loudly.

Yeah, real loud, but—it didn’t sound like a song to me, Bob said. More like a…. He paused puzzled.

Yes, it is indescribable, Stringer supplied. "The closest I can come to it is audible victory. The dying gasp of the world will give way to them, to the Legion and to the inrushing wave of light. Ach, if I had only stayed there a short time longer. But this I took away with me. I have often listened to it when I am depressed and discouraged. For you, the practical point is that anyone who has listened to this can’t ever be mistaken about who a true guest is. You will know an imposter."

Even if they’re—I think you said disguised?

Yes, even if the guest comes to you in the form of an animal or perhaps an object.

An object!

I can’t explain everything. Just accept. Having listened to the stick, you are safe from confusion.

You mean just by listening once?

Stringer nodded.

Well, I’ve done that. Here, it means so much to you.

Bob tried to hand it back but the older man would not take it.

"Nein, it is yours to keep for now."

But why?

Oh, because—well, you are being paid nothing. I think you deserve something, and this is what I have. I know I am giving you little notice and asking much. You will take it as a kindness to my conscience.

Bob let this stand, for Stringer seemed to link this loan with his own dignity.

The German now led him into the yard and around the house to the entrance of a path that cut through an overgrown fencerow on the west side of the property. What had been the fence was here reduced to just a few strands of barbwire on the ground. He stood at this opening and clapped Bob on the shoulder.

Always in a hurry, aren’t I? I’m on my way to start another inn, but I intend to come back to inspect in a few weeks. You be a good innkeeper. You’ll like it.

Bob was still in amazement about the stick, which he held in his hand. He was mentally groping toward the conclusion that, if the stick were real, then the other things he had been told might be too. But that could not be.

Any question before I go? Stringer asked.

Well, if I’m an innkeeper now…

Yes, what?

Shouldn’t you give me something like a certificate or a membership card or something?

No, if you’re willing to do it, you make your own validity. In a sense you declare yourself an innkeeper, not me. Remember that you are the newest representative of an ancient and honorable service. Accept no other guests but Magi. Stringer tapped his forehead. "Ach! I forgot. Have you found the registry book in the house?"

Bob looked at him confusedly. What?

"It will have been hidden by a spell. They all were in those days. But I’ve been in such a hurry, I neglected to tell you that your house was one of our inns long ago in the 1860’s. You will probably find a few oddities about the place, but not much will remain after so many years. The spells tend to wear out. As for the registry book, don’t weary yourself looking for it. Just ask your first guest to find it for you. The guests have no trouble locating such things. Then, though it isn’t one of the rules, it’s good to have your guests always sign the book. Very good, I’m on my way now. Auf Wiedersehen."

Bob pointed through the gap in the row. Do you realize you’re going into a soybean field?

Stringer did not answer this but shook hands with him and walked into the field.

Thanks for loaning me the wand! Bob called after him.

It is not a wand! came the irritated answer, and he kept going.

Bob watched him slog along over the rough ground, with occasional stumbles. It was June and full daylight at a little past seven, and the German was still not very far away—perhaps fifty yards—when he disappeared.

Bob cried out and ran after him. Had he fallen down a hole? Collapsed? But when he reached the place where he estimated Herr Stringer had been, he could not find him. Neither was there any hole to fall into—not that it had looked like a fall. It had looked like a magical disappearance.

Bob walked slowly back to the house and put the stick on the mantel above the old brick fireplace and in front of the large, discolored wall mirror. He did not want to listen to it again so soon. It was wonderful but too disturbing, too awesome. Instead he thought matters over. Either he was losing his mind, he decided, or he had landed in some serious adventure. Maybe he would have some excitement in his life after all.

He went to the shed and got the chainsaw. After taking a moment to add a little oil and adjust the chain, he walked away from the house eastward down a path that seemed gashed rather than cleared through an area of tall bushes and spindly trees. This way, which he had privately named the Ghastly Path, took him to the site of what had once been an orchard. Now overgrown and laced throughout with bittersweet vines, it was a wood. In his two weeks on Grantham Road he had not yet invented a name for this place, though it was a memorable spot, so hummocked and enclosed by growth that one might get lost in it.

Here was a fallen sassafras tree. He chose a place along the trunk where it was about a foot thick and sawed through cleanly and straightly. Then, slowly and carefully, he sawed through again as close to the edge as he dared without too much danger of breaking off pieces of the signboard he was creating. In the end he did lose some bits of it but was able to carry back a thick slice to his porch. He fetched a black marker and lettered ‘Wizards’ Inn’ on the flatter side of the wood. Had not Stringer said he could have any message he wanted? Beneath he drew a cartoon of a wizard’s face, a bearded old fellow with a huge nose and the required pointy hat. He screwed an eyehook into the sign’s upper edge, and hung it above the porch steps, suspended from the hook Stringer had pointed out.

Bob admired the sign’s rough, odd look for a while, then turned to look at the road. Sometimes it seemed a whole day would go by with no one passing here except Lloyd the mailman. But Stringer had said someone would come this evening, and Bob was beginning to believe it. He went in and attached the Innkeeper’s List to his refrigerator door with magnets, got himself a snack, and returned to the porch to sit in a wicker chair, munch, and watch the road. Come on, guest! Welcome to Wizards’ Inn.

At dusk someone approached, but not from the road. A stoop-shouldered man carrying a suitcase and a heavy winter coat came walking out of the Ghastly Path and across the yard. He paused when he came to the porch steps, and he and Bob looked at each other. The man was thin and middle-aged, with graying hair, glasses, and a mustache. Like Stringer he wore a suit, but his was of a very different cut, with very wide lapels and looking as if it were made of wool. Torn bits of white fabric protruded from the jacket pocket, looking like the remains of a shredded handkerchief.

I say, will you take my luggage? he asked.

Yes, sir, Bob said, noting the man’s British accent as he jumped up, Welcome to the inn.

Yes, thank you. The name’s Peterbridge, he said, following Bob inside. I had another bag but had to leave it behind. Quite a nuisance.

I’m Bob. Sorry about the place, but I just started innkeeping today. You can choose one of the bedrooms upstairs, and then I’ll move in a fan for you.

Yes, and I’ll take this beastly suit off. Is it always this hot here?

Always in the summer.

And where are we exactly?

Just outside of Mercury.

In one of the American states?

Uh, yeah, Indiana.

Very good. But it is hot! And too cold where I just came from. Well, at least it’s been a relief these last few nights to dispense with blackout curtains.

They turned a corner half way up the stairs and arrived at the top in a little hallway where they stood facing the only bathroom. They were surrounded by four bedrooms, their door frames all set at angles in the hallway’s corners.

Yes, any of these rooms will do, said Peterbridge. Here, I’ll take this one. I’m rather tired so I’ll soon go to bed. It won’t be noisy here, I suppose? No sirens or airplanes? But of course not. I’ve left that behind, but I’ve still not been sleeping well on the road. Just wake me at eight, won’t you? I don’t suppose you have eggs, I mean real eggs?

Bob promised him eggs.

Splendid! I haven’t had an egg in ages.

Bob felt the man wanted to be left alone, so having fetched him the fan and made sure that he wanted nothing more, he went downstairs. He went back out on the porch, looked at the darkening sky, and asked himself, for a moment, if this could