Chapter Text
It had been a low night for Ted. Henry had the flu so their regular Facetime calls had been canceled and Ted had been overcome with his regular dose of “lousy deadbeat Dad” feelings. He felt like he should be there, spoon feeding him soup and wiping his brow of sweat even though he knew that ill children only really needed care like that in movies and in reality Henry would just be slightly more sluggish than usual and sleeping a lot more. He also needed to accept the fact that as a divorced parent there would be times when he would just have to let Michelle be the sole parent, things couldn’t be like they had before.
So he found himself being prodded out of the door of the Crown and Anchor by Mae as she closed up, promising her that he wasn’t too drunk to find his way back to his flat on his own.
“Head straight home, alright? It’s a full moon tonight,” said Mae, sticking her head out of the door to inspect the empty cobbled street.
Ted might have thought that statement odd had he been a bit more sober, but as it was he waved it off as another weird British cultural thing he hadn’t been exposed to yet. “Yep, plenty o’light to find my way home don’tcha worry none.”
“Goodnight, Ted, be safe now,” said Mae as he shuffled past her.
“Okay Mae Fae Wray. I’ll be on my way,” replied Ted with a salute.
He walked out onto the peaceful street, not accustomed to just how empty they were. It was around midnight and Ted normally didn’t find himself up so late. He could’ve been home in a matter of minutes, but immediately he found himself wandering off in the direction of the park.
He couldn’t believe that something like Richmond Park existed in London, a city that Ted very much connected with sprawling glass and concrete. But stepping into the park was like stepping out of the city completely. Ted was delighted the first time he had witnessed seeing a herd of grazing deer when out on a walk with Beard one day (and even more delighted when Higgins later referenced that the iconic wayward dog “Fenton!” viral video had been shot in the park with those very deer).
Ted meant to go past the park, maybe let himself walk off his thoughts. But his brain started whirling, going over the same dilemmas he had considered before. His alcohol softened mind tumbled the thoughts over and over. He thought about the season, about Henry and how he felt like he was failing as a father, about how a certain journalist had become part of the Richmond team as he wrote a book about their recent successes and how nice said journalist's hair had looked today.
Ted shook his head, deciding that maybe a walk actually wasn’t helping, and if he didn’t want to end up falling in the river or passing out on a bench he should just head home. He went to turn in what he thought was that direction and was met with only wilderness. Deep, thick wilderness. He spun around and was met with the same sight. Dense foliage on all sides of him. He could barely see the moonlight above him.
“What the heck,” Ted muttered to himself. He was sure he had stuck to the roads, he never would’ve actually gone into the park at night. At least not this deep. Plus was certain he hadn’t walked the amount of time that would’ve allowed him to get this far.
As he was still trying to get his bearings, he heard a crunch of leaves from nearby and he turned to the noise. Ted fumbled to grab his phone from his pocket, hoping to use the flashlight and the maps function to find his way out, but when he poked at the screen it was unresponsive. He poked harder this time, but was met with the same result. Jabbing at the button at the side yielded no action from the phone. It was completely dead. Ted stared down at it in shock. He was very responsible when it came to his phone, making sure it was fully charged almost at all times. It was a good habit to have when you managed a premier league football team and were also father of a child half a world away. He knew he had at least been on 90% when he left the pub.
He didn’t have much more time to consider that problem though when there was another sound of crunching leaves and twigs and Ted looked up. He came face to face with a large creature standing something like ten feet in front of him, and he dropped his useless phone in shock. There, simmering in the little bit of moonlight peeking through the trees, was the most magnificent white stag he had ever seen.
Ted hadn’t seen a lot of deer up close in his life. He’d been on a hunting trip or two but he’d never witnessed anything like this. Those animals had been completely ignorant of their fates. This animal was staring at him like it knew everything about him, like it was wondering what Ted would do next.
As the stag stared at him Ted noticed that his heart rate was calming and his breathing was evening out. His mind cleared, focusing on the beautiful night around him. There was a peace coming over him, a peace he hadn’t felt in a long time. A peace that Ted was certain not even a hundred therapy sessions could provide.
When the stag turned to walk back in the opposite direction, Ted didn’t hesitate to follow.
☾ ☾ ☾
Trent stopped himself from writing the next line on his computer realizing that there was a gigantic flaw to the entire concept to his book that he had somehow overlooked: He didn’t know the manager’s name. Was Beard a nickname? Did Coach Beard grow a beard to match his name? Trent supposed he would need to go ask Human Relations to see if they provide him with the barest details of the man he was writing his book about.
Trent took off his glasses to rub at his eyes at that thought: he was writing a book about a man he knew he couldn’t even go to and ask what his name was. What a ridiculous situation. Trent was wondering how he had found himself in it.
Richmond had had a remarkable season and doing so under a former American football coach was a great story, but Trent had remembered feeling exuberant over the idea of writing a book about Richmond and their coach. He had remembered the electricity fueling him as he had written up the book proposal and the advance he had gotten from the publisher confirmed that it was a good idea. And while Coach Beard was obviously an interesting man, he wasn’t all that inspiring.
Richmond also wasn’t proving the feel good sport story fodder that Trent was sure it had been at some point.
Trent had sat in on training that afternoon and the only word to describe it had been unsettling . While Beard and Roy Kent were both very knowledgeable about the sport they were coaching, they were both conservative when it came to speech and it was almost like the players were searching for more direction, even though the coaches had been clear on what they should be doing. This was the management that had helped Richmond return from relegation in one season? Two very terse, intimidating men who barked short orders at players? Trent was sure this wasn’t what he had set out to write about in the beginning.
Trent’s interviews with the players revealed that the writer hadn’t misread the atmosphere. “What has the general feeling been at the start of the season? Behind the scenes and on the pitch?” asked Trent of Jamie Tartt. Jamie was sitting slumped in what was Nate Shelley’s former office, ready to flee the Richmond premises like the players were eager to do lately.
“It’s been weird,” said Jamie.
“How’s weird?”
“I dunno, just weird. Me and the lads feel uncomfortable like. And we used to not feel like that?” said Jamie before he sighed, “It’s hard to explain.”
“Just try,” encouraged Trent.
“Y’know like I walk in here and it usually feels good, but I dunno why? I like my mates but it’s more than that, it’s something else, and I think it’s gone. But I dunno what it is. I don’t like it. Something’s wrong with this place.”
Trent is nodding along, completely understanding what he is saying. He had felt the exact same feeling and Jamie Tartt of all people had put into words.
“Can I go now?” asked Jamie, eyeing the door.
Trent excused him with a wave of his hand, now engrossed in the situation at hand.
☾ ☾ ☾
“I think I’m going to have to give up the Richmond book,” said Trent.
Jacob Crimm turned to regard his son. They were standing in Trent’s living room and his father was gathering his things after a night babysitting his granddaughter Tabitha. Trent had just gotten home in time to give Tabby a kiss goodnight and help his father with the dishes. “And why would that be? You got a fairly nice advance for it didn’t you? I bet it wouldn’t be nice giving that up.”
Trent let out a sigh and ran his hands through his hair in frustration, “Because while I have never been a superstitious man, I am starting to believe in the rumors of that club being cursed. It is a strange and unsettling place. I also think it may be driving me a bit mad? I feel a bit all Jack Torrance when I’m there. I keep getting deja vu and walking into rooms and forgetting why I did it. And you know what the weirdest thing is?”
“No, but I’m feeling riveted, to be honest,” said Jacob with a smile.
“Every day when I walk through the doors into the clubhouse, I feel this overwhelming sense of what I can only call, and this sounds utterly insane, but glee ? Like I’m looking forward to something? What am I looking forward to?”
“Getting to write a book on a subject you are excited about? Doing something you love and have passion for?”
“But I am writing a book about a coach who has said two words to me! How is that exciting? I remember the prospect of this book thrilling me, and writing about the coach in particular being a highlight. But Coach Beard doesn’t want a book written about him, he’s a literal closed book. The man wants to read books and be left the hell alone. Do you remember how I reacted when I got this deal? How did I act?”
Jacob’s brow was furrowed, thinking back, “You did seem to be pretty energized about it, yes.”
“And the coach? Did I say anything about the coach? Was I excited to write specifically about the coach ?”
“I, uh, maybe? But Trent, my memory isn’t how it used to be.”
“Oh, now that is rubbish I watch Only Connect with you, your memory is amazing.”
“Well anyway,” said Jacob pulling on his jacket, “I don’t see what the big problem is, your book doesn’t have to be this inspiring sports story about the coach. It can be about anything. Maybe it can be about why this soccer club is so ‘weird’ as you put it.”
“Oh yes Dad. I am going to deviate and instead I will write about how strange the aura of Richmond is. Maybe there’s a vortex like that city in Arizona. There would be a big departure from being a sports writer.” At the last sentence Trent trailed off, his forehead becoming creased in thought.
Jacob shrugged, “When you were a kid, you loved mysteries. This sounds like a mystery, and well I know you were never an investigative reporter, but still, it seems like something you’d want to look into, not run from.”
Trent shook his head, “But off feelings aren’t anything I can look into. There’s no evidence to collect. And I don’t like how it makes me feel to look into it. Because just a moment ago you know what just occurred to me? I don’t remember why I got fired from The Independent.”
Jacob stepped forward to grasp his son’s shoulder, “Son, you revealed a source.”
“Yes, I know that, but I don’t know the details, it’s like my mind won’t let me focus on what happened exactly. It’s like something is keeping me from thinking about it. Dad do you know?” Trent looked desperately at his father for answers.
Jacob was starting to look distressed himself when they were interrupted by a small voice, “Daddy, I’m thirsty.”
Trent’s attention snapped completely to his daughter, “Tabby darling, yes let’s get you some water.” He leaned down to scoop up the little girl.
Trent turned once more to his father, “Say good night to granddad.”
“Good night granddad!”
“Good night Tabby cat. And Trent, just don’t give in yet okay? Give it some time, yeah?”
Trent nodded, his thoughts completely on tending to his daughter at that moment. Any other ideas of mysterious missing information slipped away into the night.
☾ ☾ ☾
The morale around the club did not improve over the next week, which was mainly due to them losing a match against Norwich. Though Trent suspected that the waning morale had been one of the causes of the loss.
The team looked so lost in the locker room, with Sam trying to raise spirits with his optimism and Dani throwing out a few “futbols is life!”s. Roy chewed out some key players for their poor choices during the match, while Beard had already retreated to his desk and sat slumped in the chair, cap pulled low over his brooding face.
Trent watched it all from his office, and it all felt so rudderless. Like this wasn’t how it normally was. This felt like this was a deviation from the norm despite there being no other evidence telling him otherwise.
There was nothing else to it though, he would stick with the Richmond plan until he decided to abandon the sinking ship and possibly go and beg for his old job back. Or take a journalist job elsewhere. He just didn’t understand why the idea of leaving Richmond made him feel so sad . And it was more than him feeling loyal to his team, no it was like he would miss something. But what? A manager who unnerved him with his stares or an assistant coach who growled instead of communicating? Rebecca Whelton who still didn’t trust him because of his affiliation with the press? A team of athletes who lately wanted nothing to do with Richmond (and that included him)? No, these were just more feelings that he couldn’t identify. More bullshit phantom feelings he was getting sick of.
He thought he might as well get a few sound bites he may or may not use from the players before they dispersed and fled the clubhouse. He went to prepare his voice recorder but his hand came back empty when he reached into his messenger bag to grab it. He patted down his pockets, also finding them empty. Trent tsked and flung open his top desk drawer. He didn’t really use the desk but figured maybe one of the custodians had seen his recorder and placed it inside. He reached into the back and grabbed hold of a very not voice recorder shaped object. Trent brought his hand out and unfolded his fist to see what he had found.
In the center of his palm sat a plastic green army man.
He held up the toy and inspected it, turning it over to look at it from all sides. The figure was of a man sweeping for mines. There wasn’t really anything special about it, and Trent should have just assumed it was a piece of junk left behind by the desk’s previous occupant (did Nathan Shelley have some affiliation with the American military?) but for some reason Trent caught his mouth spreading into a smile staring at it. The minute he realized he didn’t know why he was smiling the smile fell and confusion overcame him. This little piece of plastic was important somehow. This toy held some sort of answer. This was a clue.
With a new found energy he went to the sulking Beard and called out, “Coach Beard, I have a question for you.”
“Not now, Trent. I need to process the game,” said Beard in a straight forward voice.
“It’s not about the game, it’s about this,” said Trent, holding up the army man. Beard’s eyes looked down at the toy and then back at Trent with a slight quizzical look. “Have you seen something like this?”
“Trent I was an American born in the 70s, I know plastic army men.”
“No, I mean recently! Does this mean anything to you recently?”
Beard looked harder at the figure and almost seemed to be remembering something, but he shook his head, “No Trent, it doesn’t ring a bell.”
Trent’s shoulders slumped, “Seriously? Nothing? I was hoping you might pick up on something. what with it being American and all and you’re American.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Richmond mystery on why everything is so weird and unsettling around here. The fact that something feels wrong. Do you not feel it? Your players have felt it.”
Beard hung his head lower into his chest, “You mean that it’s wrong for me to be here managing this team, huh?”
Trent shook his head, “Oh no, it’s not you who are wrong. You’ve been here and everything was fine. It feels like things have gone bad just in the past few weeks. But I can’t for the life of me figure out why that might be. I just know I won’t get any progress on my book until I figure out why.”
“Mmm,” said Beard, taking out his well marked book, clearly done with the conversation. Trent gave a small eye roll and turned to go but stopped suddenly and turned back to Beard.
“Why do you have another desk shoved up against yours? Doesn’t it get in the way?” But Beard didn’t even look up from his book and Trent was just forced to file it away in the list of oddities around this place.
☾ ☾ ☾
Trent had planned meetings with Rebecca Whelton already set up, and her story was going to be an integral part of his book. There would be a “Rising from the Ashes” chapter that detailed her divorce from Rupert Mannion. It would lay out her point of view when finding out about his adultery and how owning the club had helped her heal and become a stronger business woman. It was a good subplot except that, like Trent, she could count the number of conversations she had had with Coach Beard on one hand. Trent knew it would be a struggle to make sure everything in the book tied together.
Normally during these meetings he had no issues giving Ms. Whelton his full attention, he was a professional journalist after all. But this morning he felt distracted by something and his eyes kept traveling over to that something. It was the most innocuous object, but like the army man, it felt important somehow.
Upon Rebecca’s desk sat a small pink box, one that looked like it had held some small confection at some point.
Rebecca coughed and Trent shot his attention back to his, “Excuse me, Ms. Whelton. I keep finding myself distracted.”
“I can see that, Mr. Crimm. What is it about my desk that you find so interesting to behold? Do you wish to interview it instead?” said Rebecca with a laugh.
Trent gave her an apologetic smile, “No I must confess, I was wondering about the pink box. Did you have some sort of treat recently?” It was a strange thing for Trent to ask about but he felt like he couldn’t leave this office without asking.
“Oh this,” said Rebecca standing up from the couch and walking over to pick up the box from the desk and turn it over in her hands. “It’s the strangest thing really. I actually don’t remember where this came from. I think there were biscuits in here though because there are crumbs and you can smell traces of them.” At this she raised the box to her noise and inhaled deeply and her face spread into a smile. “You know it’s funny? I don’t remember eating them, but I swear I remember how they taste. They were heavenly.”
Trent was on his feet now, walking over to her. “So you don’t remember where the box came from?”
Rebecca shook her head, “No, I don’t.”
“Then why keep it? It’s rubbish, really.”
She gripped the box tighter and her stance became tense, “That’s another odd thing, Trent. You see, I’ve tried to throw it away. I know it’s garbage and I should just toss it out. But I can’t. I even told Higgins to do it and he did. Thought it would be the end of that but that night I came back and I chased one of the cleaning crew members until I retrieved the bag from my office and had gotten the box out. I can’t let it go, Trent, and I don’t know why. I don’t know why because it makes me feel so sad when I look at it like I, like…”
“Like you’ve forgotten something?”
Rebecca looked at Trent with a desperate look, her eyes just starting to simmer with tears, “Yes exactly, like I’ve forgotten something. Something important and this” She said holding up the box, “Is the only tie I have to that something. You probably think I’ve gone mad.”
“No, not at all. Actually, I can relate somewhat.”
“And how might that be?” asked Rebecca.
“I feel similarly whenever I look at this,” said Trent as he reached into his pocket and brought out the green army man.
Rebecca leaned forward to look at the item, her eyes widening, “I have a similar one at home!”
Trent sat up straighter, “Oh and who gave it to you?”
Rebecca’s mouth went to answer like the name was just an automatic response but she halted and drew back, eyes creased in concentration, “I can’t remember.”
Trent sighed, “That seems like a common occurrence around here these days. I’m starting to worry that we are all suffering from a case of folie à deux, a shared psychosis among all of us here in the clubhouse. Maybe there’s a gas leak? A strange mold growing in the walls of the clubhouse?”
“Well I trust you to find out what is wrong with my football club, Mr. Crimm. I don’t like this feeling, like there’s something on the tip of my tongue that I can’t just spit it out. I keep almost remembering and it’s worse than just forgetting altogether, Trent.”
“I’ll be sure to tell you if I find out anything else, Rebecca. Have you by chance heard of any other strange occurrences going on? Anyone else picking items they seem to have a connection to they cannot for the life of them explain?”
Rebecca considered the question before pointing a manicured finger into the air, “Higgins was telling me about something strange that kept happening the other day. They kept receiving calls from the US, from a young child by the sounds of it. The boy would call and the receptionist would ask where he would want to be transferred to. But then the boy would just reply with confused statements, seemingly not knowing why he was calling. The receptionist asked to speak to a parent and his mother apologized, not understanding at all why her son was calling a football club in the UK. But then supposedly they got a confused call from her the next day. They ended up blocking the number they were calling from.”
“Hmmm,” said Trent, jotting down the details in his notebook, “Curiouser and curiouser.”
At that Keeley Jones burst into the room, looking upset and Trent took that as a sign to take his leave. He gathered his jacket and exited the room, catching snippets of their conversation. It seemed that Roy had been even grumpier than usual and shorter with Keeley recently.
Yes, thought Trent, he’s trying to coach a football club that’s gone off. Of course Roy was even more abrasive than normal. This would all come crashing down if Trent didn’t get to the cause soon, he was sure of it.
☾ ☾ ☾
A couple of nights later, Trent found himself at the Crown and Anchor eating dinner by himself and looking over his notes. Tabitha was with his ex-husband, Alexander, for the next few days so Trent was able to dedicate himself fully to the Richmond Mystery as he was starting to think of it.
He had interviewed all of the players and the staff and simply asked if they had felt anything off lately. Some of them hadn’t felt any differences lately, while others had just picked up on how their coworkers/teammates were feeling. But a majority of the people he talked to said they felt some sort of disturbance in the atmosphere. The feeling of having forgotten something was a common one among his interviewees.
“I just keep thinking of things and not knowing why they happened,” growled Roy Kent, “Like I’ve read A fucking Wrinkle in Time three bloody times. Why did I read it once ?”
“It’s an excellent novel. It’s a classic for a reason,” Trent had replied.
“You know what I mean you prick, why did someone like me pick up something like that? I can’t remember. It’s driving me bloody mad!”
Trent didn’t think that Roy Kent’s sudden interest in a children’s sci-fi novel was an essential piece of evidence to whatever was going on, but a plastic soldier and an empty biscuit box didn’t seem all that important either from an outside point of view. Trent’s notebook was filled with different observations from various people who were experiencing the Richmond Mystery. Dani Rojas had been busy passing out prayer cards of Saint Anthony explaining that as the patron saint of lost things, he must be able to help if something had been lost and forgotten.
“Yeah well we’ve lost our damn minds,” snapped Jamie as he stuck the card into his pocket.
Trent sipped on his beer, so engrossed with his notes he didn’t even notice Mae approach his seat at the bar. “How goes it, love? All that for your book on Richmond? You look a little too frustrated to be writing about football history. Unless you need me to explain the rules to ya,” said Mae with a wink.
“No Mae, this isn’t for the book. That’s actually pretty much on hold for now.”
“Oh really why would that be?” she asked, picking up a glass to dry.
“Because this is going to sound mental, but the club is cursed. Something is wrong and I’m trying to figure out what is going on,” said Trent with a sigh, waiting for Mae to laugh in his face and tell him that he’s not going to be allowed any more beers for the night.
But instead of her expected response, Mae calmly put down the glass and her eyes became shadowed, her expression serious. “Oh? I thought the whole ghost thing was sorted?”
Trent shook his head, “If there were ghosts that would almost be a relief, an answer. No, this is just like, general weirdness? The players and the staff have been experiencing it in different ways. Some are getting really bad deju vu, and others keep getting feelings they can’t explain? Like we have this security guard at the club, his name is Chris. Lovely bloke. And the other day he said he waited at the front desk for three hours because he wanted to tell someone about his niece getting first place in her swimming competition. He can’t for the life of him remember who he was waiting on, he said no one else in the club cared about his niece’s achievements and he knew that, but there was someone who needed to know, who would want to know. I have a notebook full of recent experiences just like that.”
“That is odd,” said Mae, her eyes straying around the pub. There was an air of uncomfortability over her now, and she looked as if she wanted to escape but was also fighting back telling Trent something at the same time.
Trent narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously, “Mae? Do you know anything about this? Have you experienced something too?”
Mae’s attention shot back to him, “Oh no, love. No, everything’s been normal around these parts. And I’m sure it’ll work out for ya, just give it some time. Now I gotta see to those customers.” Mae vaguely gestured to some customers who had just walked in and practically ran away.
The pub proprietress avoided Trent’s attention for the rest of his night, and eventually Trent gathered his things into his messenger bag and left, leaving a note to cover his meal.
When he got home he decided to take out his notebook for one last review of the accounts he had gathered that day. When he went to grab it from his bag, his hand first touched another unfamiliar item. He pulled a book from his bag he had never seen before, one that he was sure had not been there when he had gotten to the pub. It was old, possibly decades old, with impressive red cloth binding. It was a slim volume, only about the size of a mid-sized novel. Written on the cover with gold lettering were the words: The Fae: Protecting Yourself and Your Loved Ones.
Trent turned the book over in his hands, inspecting it. The Fae? As in fairies? Was this someone’s idea of a joke? Trent then noticed that there was a piece of paper sticking out of the book and he flipped it open to the marked page. He recognized the paper as the kind that came in rolls for receipts at the Crown and Anchor. At the top of the book page was the heading: How to Remember What was Taken . Underneath was a complicated series of instructions on how to undo what was basically described as “fae magic”. The book explained that the fae may take an interest in something or someone and so not to raise human alarm, will use their magic to make people promptly forget about the thing/person. This was a way to undo that “spell”. If the ritual was done correctly, then those who wish to take part would remember what was lost. Though they would still need to retrieve it.
Trent couldn’t believe what he was reading. It sounded like something out of his daughter’s fairy tale books. But it was actually shocking how much sense the book made. This was a ridiculous answer to what he had been feeling for the last few weeks but at least it was an answer. Plus someone must have put the book in his bag for a reason, someone was trying to help him and point him in the right direction.
He read over the steps of the ritual that would need to take place to restore their memory. It required various herbs and involved the moon at various points in its cycle. He would feel like an absolute knobhead if he actually went through with it, but it wasn’t going to hurt anyone to try at least.
☾ ☾ ☾
“Fairies? Like Tinkerbell? With little iridescent wings?” asked Rebecca Whelton from behind her desk, incredulous. She was inspecting the book about the Fae while Trent sat in front of her looking a bit worse for the wear. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, staying up all night reading the book cover to cover.
“No, not really like that at all. More like otherworldly creatures who like to pretend to be humans but are too simple and primal to get it right. They live on the edges of our reality.”
“And you think we have been cursed by fairies?” asked Rebecca, with a face that made it look like she was considering ringing 999 to have an ambulance come fetch Trent since he must be out of his mind.
“Not completely, I think they took something, someone ,” said Trent, “Think about Rebecca, the person who gave you the biscuits, whoever gave me and you the army men, whoever told Roy Kent to read A Wrinkle in Time, the person Chris wanted to talk to. I’ve poured over my notes, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Someone is missing. And when I say that? Doesn’t it feel right? The most true thing you’ve heard in weeks?”
Rebecca steepled her hands under her chin, giving Trent an appraising look. The former journalist looked haggard, with deep dark circles under his eyes and his salt and pepper locks in a messy bun atop his head. She would have every right to dismiss him, but Rebecca Whelton was at her core, a reasonable woman. She also felt what he felt when she let herself think “someone is gone”. It felt like a puzzle piece had been slotted into place.
“Okay, yes. That is true. Now if we are to perform this ritual, how do you propose we go about doing it? I can get you the supplies you need, of course.”
“I’d like to do it here, on the club grounds, because it says it helps to do it somewhere the individual would have some connection to. I’m not sure who to ask to do it. The book says the more people who know the person involved, the more likely we will be able to break through the magic. That’s why I’d like it to be an open invitation to the whole team and the coaching staff.”
“And what if they think you’ve gone insane and we get no takers?”
“Then it’s just me and you I guess.”
“I’ll make Leslie do it. And Keeley would do it just for a laugh, and she’d drag Roy along,” said Rebecca. “When does it need to take place?”
“Midnight during the next full moon. It says we need to be ‘bathed in moonlight’ so we need to be completely under the moon, so out on the pitch would be the best bet.”
“And what if it’s overcast?”
Trent shrugged, “I guess we would try again in a month then.”
Rebecca let her hands fall on her desk, “Well let’s just hope that this crazy venture doesn’t get leaked to the press.”
“Oh we’d just tell them we are doing some good luck ceremony.”
“We’d come off as bloody desperate.”
“With all due respect, Ms. Whelton. I've been going to the training sessions, and we sort of are already.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes up, “Well I hope that whoever we remember can help us win some matches.”
☾ ☾ ☾
A few days passed and it was time for the full moon. And that is how the coaching staff and a number of the Richmond players found themselves standing out on the pitch at midnight. They were standing around a table that had been placed directly in the center of the grass, on which sat glasses containing a pinkish liquid.
The players stood huddled together and directed their attention to Rebecca Whelton when she arrived in her fur-lined coat and high heels. With her came Leslie Higgins and Keeley Jones, the latter of which went to stand by her boyfriend Roy Kent, who was scowling at Coach Beard next to him. “Can’t believe we got talked into this fucking make believe shit. Phoebe would be fucking delighted to know what I was doing right now,” said Roy.
Coach Beard didn’t reply to his irate assistant coach’s remark. He had not been on board with this idea at all, thinking the whole concept far too removed from scientific fact. Plus they were in danger of getting the team’s hopes up just to disappoint them in the end. And acknowledging that these “bad feelings” were something they should address wasn’t something Beard was prepared to do. Strengthening their defense and working on their trick plays, those were things he could work on. Sorting out that “the club just feels wrong” was not something he wanted to deal with. But when Trent Crimm had sat the team down and brought up the idea a large number of them had wanted to be there for this weird ritual, and Beard felt like he had to be there for his team. And maybe he was getting tired of showing up at the clubhouse with two coffees, not knowing who the other was for. So maybe, just maybe, he was looking for answers too.
Trent stood at the table making sure everything was prepared. They had a digital clock on the table counting down until midnight and there were places marked in chalk so they would form a perfect circle. At exactly midnight they would all drink the milk mixture from each of their glasses. The book had laid out the recipe of the concoction, needing to be made from the milk of a cow born under a crescent moon in January and had to be infused with rosemary, rose petals, and four leafed clover. Each person participating had been asked to write down their strange feelings from the past weeks and the pages had been burned. The rims of each glass were then lined with the ashes. Rebecca had used her limitless resources, which now included some new-agey farm up north that kept track of the moon cycles of when their cows were born it seemed, to obtain all of the necessary items.
“Yeah that’s gonna be the worst cocktail I’ve had in me life,” said Jamie, turning up his nose at the glasses.
“Yes it will be disgusting and all for naught when nothing happens. Because of course, fairies are not real,” said Jan Maas with a smile.
“Jan, why are you even here?” asked Sam.
“Eh boyo I wouldn’t go denying fairies, my gran used to tell us stories growing up,” said Colin.
“Don’t worry Colin, I don’t think we’ll go forgetting you. We have that big green monstrosity you call a car to remind us,” joked Isaac.
Trent clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention, “Alright. I think it would be a good time to get your glass and take your position in the circle. I just want to say first though, thank you for coming tonight. I know this could be for nothing, but I think this information came to me for a reason. And whether or not we gain any insight to our problem, I just want to say. I will not give up looking for a solution to the Richmond Mystery. I will find out what happened here, so do not be disheartened. But be that as it may, I have hope that this will work. So let’s get to it.”
Each person took a glass and went to stand at their point on the circle. Roy took his with an eye roll and a growl, while Keeley picked her glass up and gave Trent a wink and a “cheers, love.” Trent made sure that everyone was in their position before he picked up the book from the table.
He would first have to read some lines before they drank the “potion.” Trent slipped on his glasses and took out his phone to use the flashlight to illuminate the short poem.
Trent coughed and begin:
“Oh mother moon shine only truth on what has been taken.
Reveal what has been hidden.
Light our path through the dark wood.
Unveil what was lost.”
He then set the book down and picked up his glass and went to stand in his position. The clock only had a minute and some seconds on it left.
“I just want to say one last time, that this is fucking stupid,” growled Roy.
“You’re just mad you’re up so late, granddad,” said Jamie.
“I will come over there you prick!”
“After we drink please!” said Trent as the clock spiraled down to midnight. Everyone waited with bated breath until there were almost no numbers left and Trent shouted, “Now!” and everyone threw back their drink.
They had been told to swallow it in one go and most of them did, being seasoned drinkers. Trent swallowed his so quickly and anxiously he didn’t even taste anything as it went down (though he did hear a few “that’s disgusting!” reactions from around him). Trent stood there for a moment, not feeling any different, but before disappointment could set in he started to feel very heavy.
He felt so heavy his knees gave out and he could see the same was happening to others around him. “What the fuck!” yelled Jamie. “Mr. Crimm, is this supposed to happen?” said Sam with some difficulty.
“I don’t, don’t know,” said Trent, “It didn’t say any--” but he halted when bright colorful lights filled his vision. It was like a sudden force flung him onto his back on the grass. He heard several other shouts, a sharp scream from Keeley. The same phenomenon must be happening to the others.
Then just as quickly as the lights came, they were gone. And the air was still and the night was calm. No one made a sound. It was like nothing had happened.
But as Trent laid there, spread out on his back on the grass, his hair fanned around him, looking up at the moon, he remembered . He remembered Indian food so spicy it made tears spring to his eyes. He remembered it so clearly it was like he could taste it, burning on his tongue. He remembered homemade decorated biscuits for Tabby’s birthday even though he had just mentioned it in passing. He remembered receiving a plastic green army man.
“He’s sweepin’ for mines, ya know because you warned me of incomin’ danger.”
“I was the incoming danger though.”
“It was coming whether or not you blew the mine, Captain Crimm.”
He remembered soft smiles, warm brown eyes, a distracting strand of hair come loose over a handsome face. He remembered a mustache that would look dated on others but looked charming on him. He remembered how his heart raced when he was on the receiving end of a particularly fond look. He remembered how he had come to accept that he was besotted for an American man who wore khakis and carried a backpack.
And then he had forgotten him.
He had forgotten Ted.