Back to the Fuchsia
For some people, time travel is a fantastic daydream, but for Gertie O’Leary, it’s just another magically induced accident.
Just when you thought things couldn’t get weirder at the Paranormal Plantation, Gertie decides to jazz the place up with another DIY project.
Fuchsia’s a great color, don’t you agree?
Sure, it’s great. But after Gertie mixes her favorite color with a heavy dose of untried witchcraft, creating a strange time-warping side effect, she and her paranormal posse land in the court of King Henry VIII.
You know what isn’t great? Your friend loses her memory and tries to steal your boyfriend, you can’t figure out how to get back home and worse, you’re accused of witchcraft!
Add in a pair of mischievous Sasquatches, along with a curious dragon and it spells certain doom for Gertie and her friends as they take their magical buffoonery to the sixteenth century!
One minute, we were in my kitchen in the middle of the night, the next minute, Darcy and I landed in a heap outside. The grassy field we found ourselves in was bordered by thick oak trees. By the way their twisted shadows stretched across the field, I could tell it was late afternoon.
“Meow, meow.” Darcy licked her paws.
“Ouch. Me, too.” I rubbed the knot on my thigh. “It feels like we fell…like perhaps we fell out of one of those trees.”
Something wasn’t right.
“This doesn’t look like home. Not at all. My wand! It must have fallen in the tall grass.”
A breeze chilled me, urging me to wrap my robe tighter and pull up my panda hood. I rolled onto my knees and pawed through the tall grass. “Help me find it, please.”
A once familiar sound pounded in the distance, and it rapidly grew louder. “A horse! It’s coming closer!” Then another familiar, but more alarming sound rang out; the fervent bays and yelps called out by a pack of hunting dogs in hot pursuit.
The mere thought of some killers hunting on my paranormal animal sanctuary was enough to make me nearly insane. The idea that they brazenly galloped around with hounds made me want my magic wand more than ever.
Darcy and I scratched at the ground like rabid squirrels. The search for my wand was futile.
“We’re out of time, they’re almost here. Without my wand, I’ll have to stop those hunters the old fashioned way.”
“Meow, meow, meow?”
“No, Darcy, we’re not going to hiss and scratch their eyes out. I’ll give them a good tongue lashing for sure. I might even threaten to call the sheriff.”
“Lame? How is that lame? We can’t stoop to their level of cruelty.” No sooner had I uttered those words than we were surrounded by noisy terriers.
A man’s voice shouted, “Your Grace! There! Yonder, beast is trapped!” The accent was English and his speech sort of silly, as if spoken by an actor in a Shakespeare play.
I was still on my hands and knees. My oversized panda hood partially blocked my vision, but I could tell another man had dismounted. He rushed at me, the blade of his dagger gleamed. I was so frightened that I sprang up and screamed like a skewered banshee.
“Bloody Christ!” my would-be assailant shouted. “Magical beast! I command thee to shut thy mouth!”
“Magical beast? Where?” I looked over my shoulder, expecting a dragon. It took a minute of wide-eyed confusion until I realized I must have presented quite a sight crawling around in a full length panda robe. I dropped my robe to show that I was just an ordinary human. I suppose I should have acted more modestly, after all, I was wearing nothing more than a sheer pink negligée.
The man who had remained mounted fainted, and fell from his horse. Thankfully, the fall brought him back to his senses.
The man with the dagger smiled and nearly drank me up with his stare. “Squire, send forth a messenger to Heaven.”
“Yes, Your Grace. What shall it be?”
“Ask God if he is missing an angel, for it appears I have found one!” he said, returning the dagger to its sheath.
“Very witty, Your Grace,” replied the squire flatly, like he’d heard it said one too many times.
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it seems you’ve just attempted a cheesy pickup line on me. By the way, from the looks of your clothes, you two have lost your way to the Medieval Times Dinner Theater, or you’re the next Burger King mascot.” My jabs must have worked. The royal stranger was now the one looking dumbfounded.
“What is your name? Tell me, am I rescuing thee or capturing thee?”
“How about you tell me your names? So when I call the sheriff, I can tell him exactly who has been trespassing on my plantation.”
“Thou art a feisty wench! I shall tell you my name. Then thou shall know how to scream my name in my bedchamber tonight!” He nodded proudly to the squire. “’Tis another good one!”
“Yes, Your Wittiness.” The squire sighed.
“I am Charles, Duke of Suffolk, Earl of Sussex, and Master of Great-sex.”