Who: Zipporah and Mac What: Zipporah gets thoroughly shickered Where: The Lionhart When: 21st June, 1888 Rating: PG
Zipporah didn’t quite realize until she was three drinks in that she cackled just like her grandmother when she was in her cups.
She hadn’t had many opportunities to discover this side of herself -- oh, sure, she’d gotten a little tipsy now and then when her grandmother and Auntie had occasionally cracked open a second bottle of wine at Purim, but her family didn’t get invited to weddings, not since coming here, and this was the second time she’d ever been in a bar.
Mac’s bar.
There was something so delightfully dangerous about the bar (and the proprietor), but it simultaneously felt like the safest place she’d ever been, and the polarity of it was delicious. She knew the legends about accepting food and wine from creatures like him, knew that while he looked like a man of thirty (a well-made one at that, if she had to be honest), he had ancient eyes, and rippled with a power she could only barely begin to comprehend -- something ancient, and most certainly not human, someone who (for the time being, thankfully) appeared to be no longer angry with her, and indulged her presence -- and here she was, getting drunk off her tuchus with him.
Because why not live a little?
She cackled again, rapping on the counter. “Now that,” she said, pointing her finger at him. “Now that is a story.” She looked over at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing as she laughed. “You tell them very well,” she added, grinning. “I’d expect no less.”
An amused snort was his response as he refilled her glass. “Aye, and if ye believe that I've a bridge tae sell ye in Brooklyn, as the Yanks say.”
Mac honestly wasn't sure he'd see the front of the young hedge witch again after their first encounter. So to have her turn up at the Lionhart again was a pleasant surprise. After spending as much time around mortals as he had, he'd expected he might see her again but he hadn't counted on it being so soon, not even a fortnight.
But he was happy enough to ply her with drinks (and if she became too inebriated to go home he'd stick her in a spare room to sleep it off) and see if this young witch was any different from the other mortals aware of what he was who crossed his path.
“A story for a story then, aye? How’d a youngster like yerself come to have a companion like yer ‘brother ‘ to walk beside ye?” And had she made it herself or had someone made it for her?
“I’m twenty-three, I’ll have you know,” Zipporah replied, snorting a little and grinning, because nearly everyone would be considered a youngster compared to him, she was fairly sure.
She shrugged at his question, looking pleased. “I was eighteen when we started off for London, and it was going to be a long, hard journey -- just me, my grandmother, and my Auntie, and my grandmother worried a great deal about…” she waved her hand. “About everything. We were more than capable of defense, of course, but it… to anticipate the need at every turn? The worry? That we looked like…” she frowned. “Like prey? It was weighing on her. And we needed someone strong to carry our things.”
She looked up at him. “And I wanted a piece of my home with me. And for to demonstrate the…” her forehead wrinkled. “The mastery? To show my grandmother I was grown and ready. I’d been reading up on it ever since my father was taken, and my mother died while trying to give birth to what would have been my little brother, so I went down to the riverbank and made a brother of my own.”
Tipping her chin proudly, she looked at him. “I sculpted him with my own hands, and commanded him to wake, and he’s kept watch over us and followed my orders ever since.”
“Goodness, twenty three?” Mac feigned shock. That was a bit older than he'd estimated, but not by much. He listened to her tale while sipping his whisky and nodded appreciatively. To create a construct like she had was a masterwork indeed in the original sense of the word, showing a talent and learning (along with a healthy dose of willpower) that few possessed.
“So how is it ye’re a ‘spinster’ of twenty three instead o’ married off with a passel o’ bairns?” His tone was teasing but he was genuinely curious. Zipporah was far from ugly and he could imagine several young men vying for her hand in the past.
“Haven’t you heard?” Zipporah replied, waggling her fingers and laughing. “I’m a witch. An ungodly Jezebel, a servant of the devil. There’s a rumor in my neighborhood that I cause men’s testicles to shrivel and drop off just by looking at them, and I have a shocking tendency to speak my mind and do what I want. My father? He was a rare one for staying around with my mother. It takes a brave man to be with a strong-willed woman, and me? I come from a long line of them.”
It was all said as a bit of a joke -- Zipporah knew her powers were rooted in her faith, but that didn’t stop the looks and gossip.
“How many is in a passel?” She asked, thoughtfully. “And how many have you had, for that matter?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Devil only knows.” Mac replied, truthfully, and knocked back his whisky. He’d lived so long and been with so many women over the centuries that he could have more descendants than the great Genghis Khan himself for all he knew. “But none I ken aboot since before th’ ‘45 Rising, Bonny Prince Charlie and all that shite ye ken.” He missed Scotland sometimes, with a fierce longing for how it had been centuries before. Back when the Highland Clans had been their own masters and didn’t care what anyone else thought. It was one of the reasons he’d moved to London, besides his Queen’s command. If he wasn’t there then he couldn’t see them brought to heel by the English, which had been bound to happen sooner or later once the union occurred.
He poured himself another whisky, not feeling drunk enough for this conversation suddenly.
“A witch ye say? Fools, the lot o’ em. Once upon a time a woman such as yerself would hae been the pride o any man.” Of course, that was before the Romans came.
“Damned right,” Zipporah replied, laughing heartily. “Schmucks. Wouldn’t know a woman of quality if she walked up and smacked them in the face.” The laugh turned back into a cackle, and she wiped her eyes as the tears of mirth gathered in the corners.
“Eh. Most of ‘em wouldn’t know for what to do with me if they had the chance, anyhow. Are Englishmen any better?” She asked him musingly as her laughter died down, wondering briefly about the lanky, slightly awkward, perpetually disconcerted mortician she’d met these past few weeks. The thought of Mister Darcy being romantic was deeply amusing -- she also expected he’d be mortified at the thought, which only made it funnier. She snorted, and then giggled, looking over at Mac and shrugging.
A sudden thought made her re-focus, and she propped her chin on her hand, looking over at him thoughtfully. “I take ‘ken’ means ‘to know,’ yes? Because no, no I do not know of this Bonnet Prince, but he sounds like a proper shmegegge.”
“Depends on th’ Englishman.” Mac shrugged and had another healthy sip of his drink. “Some will hae a right good time wi’ ye if ye fancy em, others hae sticks up their arses so high they cannae bend over. Give it forty or fifty years and I dinnae doubt things will be much improved.” He eyed his young drinking companion. “But there’s a bloody lot o’ ‘em out there, you’ll find one lass, dinnae fash. As fer bloody Charles Edward Stewart, aye, shmegegge sounds a proper description.” A hundred or two hundred years ago he’d have spat afterwards for emphasis, but the emphasis on cleanliness these days had broken him of the habit.
He was no Republican, a monarchist through and through, but he despised anyone who got brave men killed for nothing. Royalty these days were shadows of what they once were, no longer hard bitten warriors ruling from horseback with sword in hand. They were kinder, gentler, and utterly toothless, at least in the mundane world.
“S’ interesting,” Zipporah replied, after giggling at Mac’s description, “the ones I’ve met were mostly either sticks, or frightfully crude. Even during the day.” She made a face. “It’s why I’m glad for Ach. When he’s around, they don’t assume I’m a…” she made a gesture with her hands that didn’t really leave much room for interpretation, rolling her eyes. “It gets tiresome,” she added, “...and the prices they offer? No good. Insulting!” She continued, laughing as she pounded the bar.
Raising her glass, she tipped it Mac’s way in a toast. “To finding a man without a stick, and may Prince Charles be punished endlessly by demons of his own creation. Zol er krenken un gedenken.” She quaffed it, and set it down, a little harder than she’d intended. “May he suffer, and remember,” she clarified, jabbing a finger in the air triumphantly.
Mac raised an eyebrow. She was definitely feeling no pain at this point. He chuckled and raised his glass in salute. “To stickless men, and Briseadh agus brú ar do chnámha Charles Stewart! A breaking and crushing on yer bones!” This time he did spit. To hell with propriety. He owned the place.
“As fer you, lass, unless ye want me tae walk ye home ye wilnae be leavin’ until ye’ve slept off some of th’ drunk. I’ll not have ye on my conscience fer sendin’ ye home withnae escort.” She was in no state to be walking home on her own.
Zipporah spat too, three times, with relish (although there wasn’t any actual spit -- it was more of a ‘puh’ for form’s sake), before Mac’s words registered with her.
“I am more than capable of handling myself,” she said, nearly automatically, before sitting back and frowning.
She hadn’t given it too much thought until this moment, but it’d be a challenge to summon Ach in her current state -- once she’d sobered, she’d be able to generate the degree of precision and will needed to call him to her, and it’d been so easy to send him away, knowing the wards of the Lionhart would keep her safe while she was in them, and not think ahead to after.
“...I may have overstated my current capabilities,” she amended, wilting a little. She blinked a bit, looking up at him. “You would walk me home?” She said, her expression slipping into something a little more serious. “...You would have me for to sleep here, in your place?” She added, her voice getting quieter, lower. “I would not have thought… you do me a great mitzvah ...a courtesy,” she said, frowning at her inability to be precise, to find the right words.
“Zipporah you are a Guest in my home.” Mac replied soberly, all traces of levity gone. “You didnae come as just another patron, ye came tae see me and took drink when I offered it. It would be a stain on my honor tae allow a Guest tae come tae harm when unable tae protect themselves.” And he liked the young witch, it would be a shame to lose the pleasure of her company for the next forty years or so if something were to happen.
Zipporah didn’t miss the emphasis, even though she was properly shickered by now -- hosting a guest was a sacred thing, and she appreciated the gravity of being considered one of his. She nodded, acknowledging the gift, and grinned a little, cheekily pleased despite herself.
She weighed the options -- one required Mac to both venture into possibly dangerous territory (dangerous for him, at least -- the gangs of the East End gave her and Ach a wide berth, but liked to cut their teeth on fresh blood, especially at this time of night), and while she had no doubt he could handle himself (more than), she didn’t want to make more trouble than she was worth. The other was to put a strain on his offer of hospitality, but was safer all around, so she nodded. “An hour or two to clear my head would be appreciated,” she said, looking up at him. “Thank you.”
A benevolent smile spread across Mac’s face at the response and he topped off her glass. “In that case lass, drink up!”