Extraordinary

by Nancy Werlin

  “Oh,” said Phoebe in a small voice.

  Should she fight to the end? She thought of the queen’s promise that, if Phoebe cooperated, her mother would live.

  And the faerie people too. Was that important? A whole people. A whole people and culture threatened with extermination. All of Phoebe’s Jewish roots whispered to her that this was important.

  But she wasn’t doing anything to them. They had brought it on themselves. Or rather, the queen had. Or could you say that Mayer had, although unintentionally? Did that make Phoebe responsible now?

  She couldn’t sort it all out.

  She looked bleakly back into the manticore’s eyes. And saw them narrow, change; saw them focus sharply on something behind her a second before he sprang to his feet, spine arched. Phoebe turned her head, following his gaze.

  The wall between the faerie world and the real world had again vanished. Once more, Mallory stood in the newly opened portal. She was now fully as thin and starved-looking as the other faeries, her clothing even more ragged.

  But Phoebe only focused on Mallory for an instant, because standing beside her was Benjamin. And though afterward Phoebe had no memory of getting up or of running, suddenly she was all the way across the clearing and flinging herself at him.

  Benjamin stumbled a little from the impact, but recovered.

  “Pheeb.” He hugged her hard. “Pheeb.”

  Phoebe hugged back with force. He was solid, real, and a little sweaty. Maybe also in need of a shower. But miraculously, miraculously, he was here with her.

  Or not so miraculously.

  Phoebe turned her head to the side and there was Mallory a few steps away. Mallory, with her eyes unreadable and her face immobile. Mallory, with the portal now firmly closed again behind her.

  Mallory had brought Benjamin. Alarm surged through Phoebe. Why? Was he another hostage to make sure Phoebe did as she was told? How dare they? Benjamin had nothing to do with anything—his only crime was in being Phoebe’s friend. Would they hurt him, kill him too?

  She swung fully away from Benjamin to face her former friend. But her thoughts must have been written all over her face, because Mallory spoke before Phoebe could say a word.

  “Don’t worry, Phoebe. No harm of any kind is intended toward Benjamin. He’s just here for you. When everything’s over, I’ll take him home. He’ll be safe.”

  When everything’s over. Phoebe clenched her fists. “Call it what it is, Mallory. When I’m dead. That’s what you mean. Unless you’re lying about this too.”

  “I—yes. That’s what I mean. And I am not lying.”

  “Really? You’re not using him to blackmail me? Manipulate me? Torture me?”

  “No!”

  “Why should I believe you?” Phoebe didn’t wait for an answer. She turned again to Benjamin. She put her cheek against his skinny chest and tightened her arms around him again, and felt his tighten again around her.

  But extra tension had entered his body at her words. He whispered in her ear, “Pheeb, I never thought of her manipulating you. She told me that I could come and be here for you, that you needed a friend now. That’s what she said.”

  “She’s a liar,” Phoebe said, her voice muffled. “She’s always been a liar. But I’m still glad to see you. I can’t believe you came.”

  “Of course I came. When she told me—once I believed her—well, of course I’m here.”

  Phoebe thought that there was no such thing as of course. You never knew, with people. A friend might or might not be for real. Only a crisis would tell.

  But he was for real. He was Benjamin, her friend.

  chapter 38

  They had the whole afternoon together. By the time Phoebe managed to step slightly away from Benjamin—and an inch was all the distance she could bear—Mallory had vanished. Then the manticore withdrew, without words, to the far end of the clearing, and though he still kept watch, the distance was enough to provide Phoebe and Benjamin with a small illusion of privacy.

  They sat down immediately by the portal. Phoebe felt shaky with emotion, but the real problem was that Benjamin was wearing ankle shackles. They were made of soft moss, but a few attempts of Phoebe’s to tear them away proved their strength. “Ouch!” she said involuntarily, and rubbed her bruised fingers.

  “Resistance is futile,” Benjamin quoted nerdily, and smiled almost shyly at Phoebe. “Hello,” he said then.

  “Hello,” said Phoebe.

  They looked at each other. Then they looked away. Then back.

  Benjamin leaned up against the wall, muttering something about keeping near it, just in case they had an opportunity to escape. Phoebe smiled bleakly. She harbored no hope of escape for herself. And whether Benjamin was an intentional hostage or not didn’t matter. Like her mother, that was what he was. She prayed Mallory had been telling the truth about Benjamin’s eventual safety. She prayed he would get to go home to Nantucket. Which she would never see again.

  But at least she had her friend with her—the friend who had never done her any harm. The knowledge filled her with grateful tears that Phoebe was determined to keep inside.

  They sat close together, side by side, thighs and arms pressing against each other. Benjamin was talking softly, almost whispering in Phoebe’s ear as he held her with one skinny arm, and eventually Phoebe was able to take in what he was saying: that Mallory had simply appeared by the side of the road in Nantucket, catching Benjamin as he was bicycling home from school, and told him the whole incredible story.

  “You believed her?”

  He looked a little defensive. “I don’t know if I did or not. Maybe I decided to, uh, suspend disbelief. She said you needed me and that if I would step with her behind a particular tree—it was just an ordinary pine, Phoebe, not even a very old one—then I would see you.” He shrugged. “She said there was a doorway between Nantucket and, uh, here. One step and I would be with you. So I went. And here you are. Unless I’m having a nightmare, which I sort of hope I am.”

  He shrugged awkwardly. “But I’ve been so worried about you. All these weeks, Pheeb, with your mother sick. And also I was worried that I—well, that I ruined things between us. By, you know, telling you I cared about you. I thought maybe that was why you weren’t answering my emails very much. But it doesn’t matter what I said, you know that, right? We’re friends. We’re always friends. And this stuff—this faerie stuff . . .” Benjamin’s voice trailed off. He gestured at the garden, at the manticore, clearly at a loss for words.

  “It’s not a nightmare. It’s real,” Phoebe said. She too kept her voice low. “But if you want, you can try pinching yourself, and me, to see if it goes away. If we’ll wake up.”

  Benjamin said hesitantly, “And this stuff about you, uh, dying ... ?”

  “The faeries think they have to sacrifice me to survive. I thought you said Mallory explained it all.”

  “Yes. But like you said, she’s a liar. Even if she weren’t, I’d want to hear what you have to say. Tell me what happened. Everything. We need to go over it. There’s got to be a way out.”

  “Oh,” Phoebe said. “Well. All right. Um. Keep in mind that probably we’re being listened to. I can’t imagine that anything we say here isn’t overheard.”

  Benjamin nodded.

  Phoebe told him everything that had happened since she had talked to Mrs. Tolliver, including the conclusion of Mallory’s tale about Mayer Rothschild, and ending with what had happened when Phoebe met the faerie queen. As usual, Benjamin listened without interrupting, though for the first time Phoebe could feel from the way his body tensed that he was having trouble forcing himself to remain silent.

  When she had finished and turned fully to face him—it had helped her, in telling the story, to remain side by side, in physical contact but without seeing his face directly—she found he was crying. But even though his face was distorted, it wasn’t from the tears, but from what she recognized incredulously as pure rage.

  “Let them die,�
�� he said. “Phoebe, just refuse. Let them all die.”

  “But refusing won’t work. They said that. And my mother—”

  “Let them die! Let’s at least try this. Don’t drink their poison. Don’t repeat their so-called ritual words. Maybe they can’t make you, after all. Who knows? And if they all die, that might release your mother too.” Benjamin’s voice rose. “And you know what else? You’re not ordinary! How could you ever say that or think it? That’s another one of Mallory’s lies—not to mention that . . . that other one. They talked you into it. You get that, right? You’re wonderful, Phoebe. Kind, thoughtful, smart, fun. A good friend, all these years. And it’s nothing to do with your family, either. It’s just you.”

  “Benjamin, I—”

  “And listen. Phoebe, I just have to say it. I love you. I just—I love you. I hope that doesn’t offend you. I know it’s not what you feel about me.”

  “I’m not offended,” Phoebe said, once it was clear he had stopped talking. In fact, Phoebe felt so far from offended that she was vaguely astonished Benjamin would even think it a possibility.

  “Oh. Good,” said Benjamin. “I don’t expect to talk about it. I don’t even want to talk about it. I just want you to know. And now—” He set his jaw. “Now let’s talk about getting you out of this. Suppose you just say you’re extraordinary tonight, right to their faces. Say it like you mean it, instead of saying you’re ordinary. Say it like you believe it, which you should. And then you don’t drink their poison. Can you do that?”

  “Do not go gentle into that good night,” said Phoebe.

  “What?”

  “It’s a poem. Dylan Thomas. Old age should burn and rave at close of day / Rage, rage, against the dying of the light. Not that I’m old. The point is that you should go down fighting. You shouldn’t give in to death.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “And if my mother dies?” Or, Phoebe thought, if they kill you?

  “I’ve been thinking about that. They’re responsible for her being in a coma. Not you.”

  “But—”

  “And she’d want you to fight. You know she would.”

  Phoebe did know.

  “Don’t you want to fight?”

  “Only if I win,” said Phoebe finally, softly. “Otherwise, I want my mom to live. And you. And—” She stopped.

  “And what?”

  “I don’t like the thought of a whole people dying. I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

  “But it’s them or you, Phoebe. And Mallory and—that other one.” The sharp inhale and the tightening of Benjamin’s face, and the way he did not even so much as glance at the manticore, was the only opinion that Benjamin would ever utter to Phoebe about the creature who had been Ryland. “They deliberately set you up.”

  Phoebe sighed. “Look. I’m thinking it all over. But I need to know: Will you be with me tonight? Whatever happens? Whatever I decide to do or—or not do?”

  A long, long moment of silence.

  “That’s why I came,” said Benjamin bleakly. “That’s what she asked me to do. She said you needed me.”

  “Mallory, you mean?”

  “Mallory. May her soul rot in hell.”

  “That won’t happen,” said Phoebe. “She doesn’t have one.”

  chapter 39

  Evening came. There was no preventing it. The sun began to sink behind the mountains, sending out bands of orange and pink against the sky. Across the clearing from where Phoebe and Benjamin sat, the manticore got to his feet. As he stretched, the bones of his skeleton rose up from his thin pelt in stark, chilling silhouette.

  Phoebe felt Benjamin’s hand tighten where it cupped her shoulder, digging painfully into her skin. His face was rigid with fury and hate, directed at the manticore and perhaps also at the setting sun and the inescapable fact that time had run out. A second later he was struggling to stand. But the moss shackles had grown to cover even more of Benjamin’s legs, so in the end Phoebe had to help him.

  “Phoebe,” Benjamin whispered. “What have you decided? Will you refuse? Will you fight?” His voice was urgent, demanding. He had no need to say again that this was what he thought she should do; it was utterly clear.

  She loved him for it. But she didn’t know if he was wrong or right. All afternoon, as she sat with Benjamin, first she had decided one way and then, the next minute, the other.

  Phoebe shook her head. “I’m not sure.” Then she added, “I’m sorry.”

  She heard Benjamin’s wordless exhalation of impatience, of frustration. But he stayed close to her; he kept holding her, and she knew he would be there as long as possible.

  And so they stood, leaning on each other, while across the clearing the sun sank lower and the manticore was gradually joined by others of his kind.

  The new arrivals drifted into visibility like mist solidifying. First there was a group of four faeries by the manticore’s side. Then there were eight, then ten, then twenty-one, and soon too many to count, many more than had gathered with the queen that morning. Phoebe turned slightly so that she could watch Benjamin’s face as he took in the faerie folk in all their variegated glory. Fur, feathers, leathery skin, tree bark, spots. Two legs and four legs and in a couple of cases, eight. Tails. And yet they were so unmistakably humanoid too.

  They were exactly as Mallory had described in the story of Mayer Rothschild and the faerie queen, which Benjamin too had heard on Nantucket. But seen in the flesh, they were also so much more. They were the creatures of myth and legend, of ancient pagan religion and power. They were the unearthly, the inhuman. The mysterious and the unutterable, that which cannot be mapped or known. They represented the limits of logic and rationality and the depths of the subconscious. Their very existence made you small. And somehow, at the same time, it made you large.

  Despite everything, Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat as she looked. Once more she understood why her ancestor had knelt. But this time, she also had a glimpse of something else: that perhaps his worship had not been entirely in contradiction to a love of the one God. For who was she—and who was Mayer—who were even the faeries—to understand the whole of the universe?

  What would the world be without this physical manifestation of the ineffable living somewhere in it? If they died, what else might be destroyed along with them?

  She saw Benjamin’s eyes flicker behind his glasses—those intelligent eyes that she knew so well—as he looked from one faerie to the next to the next. She saw him understand fully what she had understood earlier: They weren’t making it up. These people had been decimated by weakness, disease, powerlessness. They were truly on the verge of death.

  She felt his breath in her ear as he whispered, “Let them die, Phoebe.”

  It was no longer a demand. It was a plea.

  Perhaps he did not see all that she now did about them. Or perhaps he did, but still valued her life more. This too Phoebe couldn’t know. There was no time to find out.

  She thought: I am not smart enough or brave enough or strong enough to make this choice. I am not—she groped for the right word and found it—not extraordinary enough.

  Across the clearing, the faerie folk formed themselves into a rough semicircle, facing Phoebe and Benjamin. Then, in the center of them all and taller than everyone, the antlered man appeared.

  “The king,” Phoebe whispered to Benjamin. He nodded. Phoebe inclined her head again when the king’s gaze rested on her, but Benjamin didn’t. Benjamin stood straight and grim, and Phoebe had a kind of double vision as she saw in him a glimpse of what he was going to be like when he was a man. Suddenly she knew that if she could have been so lucky as to pick one certain thing to happen in her future, it would be to still know Benjamin. To always know Benjamin.

  The piping notes of a pan’s flute twisted through the air.

  The king approached, alone. He bowed to Phoebe deeply, and then he held out his arm, offering it silently to her. But Benjamin’s arm w
as still around her shoulders and it tightened like a vise. He was shaking. So was Phoebe.

  She could not help noticing that, in a fitted sling that hung over one shoulder, the king wore a knife. She could only see its shape, but that was enough to tell her that the knife was thick, with a curved tip that came to a point.

  For one second she closed her eyes. Then determinedly, she turned swiftly within Benjamin’s arm and faced him, and reached up with both hands for the sides of his head, cupping her palms against his cheeks. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being here. I wish I knew how to tell you what it means to me. And don’t believe for a second that I didn’t love you, Benjamin. I always did and I always will. I never understood how much until today. Until right now. I love you.”

  “Phoebe,” said Benjamin.

  “And now,” said Phoebe steadily. “Let me go.”

  “Phoebe, no. No.”

  “Yes,” said Phoebe. “My dear friend. My beloved friend. This is my decision to make. Please let me. Right or wrong.” She saw the desperate question in Benjamin’s eyes. “No. I still haven’t figured out what I’ll choose. But I’ll know soon. And here’s the thing. No one is forcing me into anything; not anymore. That’s over and past, because I say so. This is just me now. Just me and my decision. So let me go. Let me go.”

  He did. His arms loosened and fell to his sides, though his eyes remained fixed on hers. After several long seconds, Phoebe let her hands fall from his face. She stepped away and, in silence, took the king’s arm. “Wherever we’re going now, my friend is coming too,” she said to the king, and it was not a question, it was a command.

  He nodded. A glance at Benjamin’s legs, and the moss shackles fell away. Phoebe held out her other hand and Benjamin took it and stood once more beside her.

  By now the sun was almost finished sinking below the horizon. Phoebe fixed her gaze on it in these precious remaining seconds—this final sunset—and watched the last of the orb disappear. Then, in the dusk, the fey in their semicircle held torches aloft. The fire from the torches lit the night. Though music still came only from the single pan’s flute, now it seemed entirely to fill the clearing.