‘The potion!’ he buzzed. ‘Spray the queen bee with the anti-love potion.’
‘The flask is as dry as the Sphinx’s armpits,’ I told him. ‘Change back, old man.’
I mean, it was obvious.
‘Oh. Right.’ The words were said in human form — and loud enough to attract the attention not just of Amaz but the warriors too.
Someone gave a scream of rage, which turned into a war yell, which was followed by shouts of delight as the women grabbed their battle axes.
It was time to TAP.
CHAPTER 13
We landed with a thump in Puck’s workshop. I reached for the spectrometer I’d given him as a Midsummer’s Eve present last year. (He’d given me a tricycle. Sometimes he didn’t quite remember how old his descendants were.)
Puck pushed my hand away. ‘I may be old,’ he grumbled, ‘but my nose can still tell me more than your modern gadgets can.’ He took a deep sniff of the flask. ‘Elderberry, two parts; rosehip, one part; hawthorn berry, two parts; bitter aloe, four parts; a drop of rosemary juice; three drops of sage; a leaf of lemon myrtle.’
I flicked through time on the last syllable. A girdle around the world in forty milliseconds — I had broken the speed of sound! The world was still rumbling as I arrived back in Puck’s lab surrounded by a mist of single origin 75% cocoa dark chocolate.
‘Got it!’ I yelled, throwing every ingredient into the juice extractor. I poured half the juice into a flask and the other half into another flask that I shoved into a pouch on my belt.
‘You give this first flask to Oberon so he can unenchant Her Majesty,’ I told Puck. ‘Get rid of that donkey idiot too. I’ll find the lovers and unenchant them.’
I grabbed Puck’s hand and dragged him back into the rumbling neverwhen. We broke the sound barrier, the speed of light, and then the time barrier, all in a haze of chocolate sultanas.
I found the four young lovers asleep in the wood. Not in an enchanted glade. Not in any glade at all, just some trees and a few briars and a lot of goat droppings. They looked as if they had dropped down, exhausted, after chasing around in a confusion of emotions and too many trees. Demetrius snored slightly, his hand reaching towards Helena’s. Lysander lay close to Helena’s other side. Hermia was by herself, a huddle of arms and legs and tunic, her head on a tree root, her face streaked with dust and tears. She even sobbed a little in her sleep.
I perched on a branch above them, fairy-sized, the bottle of potion in my belt pouch. All I had to do was drip a little anti-love potion in Lysander’s eyes and all would be well; he would love Hermia once more in the morning. And Demetrius could keep his enchanted infatuation with Helena. I could make things doubly sure by dropping love potion in Helena’s eyes in case she ever noticed, or began to care, that she’d married a brute. And maybe some love potion in Lysander’s eyes too, at the moment he first saw Hermia again . . .
The branch rocked slightly as Puck landed next to me. ‘Done the job yet?’
‘Not yet. How is Her Majesty?’
‘Awake and perfectly happy. She’s forgotten all about the human, donkey ears and all. Oberon spirited off her pageboy while she was asleep, but she didn’t even notice.’ Puck yawned. ‘It’s going to be a decent Midsummer’s Eve revels after all. I remember the first time I was in charge — Oberon had heard about a music group called The Beatles, and I thought he said beetles.’ He stopped and peered at me. ‘What’s wrong, boy?’
I waved at the sleeping humans. ‘All this. Why do we meddle?’
He spoke seriously for once. ‘Some of what we do is good, boy. The world would be awash with teeth if it weren’t for fairies like your Flossie; and spring would be as washed out as the weaver’s old trousers if not for my Daffodil and her gang. And many a young girl would go wrong without the Fairy Godmother Regiment.’
‘But enchanting people . . . Have you ever thought what their lives would be like if we left them to choose freely?’
‘Of course,’ Puck said quietly. ‘I’ve lived and served ten thousand years, boy. Of course I’ve wondered.’
‘Maybe Theseus had a woman he loved — or who at least loved him — back in Athens,’ I said. ‘And Hippolyta — no Amazon marries. She’s been forced into something she’d never have chosen.’
‘You sure about that? Theseus and Hippolyta have more in common than you might think. Both magnificent leaders. Both prepared to give their lives for their people. He respects her. She admires him. I don’t think they’d have found anyone else they’d feel like that about. It’s not a bad basis for a life together, potion or not.’
‘And if I hadn’t used the potion, one would have killed the other and then perhaps mourned all their life for something they didn’t realise they’d lost,’ I said, trying to convince myself. Then I shook my head. ‘It still wasn’t right.’
‘I know, boy.’
I stared at him. ‘You agree?’
‘It wasn’t right. But I don’t think it matters much either. You think people really want to choose their own destinies?’
‘They don’t get a chance,’ I said bitterly. ‘We do what Their Majesties order. So did the Athenians and the Amazons.’
‘But it’s not like that in a few thousand years. Things change.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘I know you’ve flicked yourself far into the future a few times. I did too for a while, when I was young.’
‘Why did you stop?’
‘Because in the future, humans have free choice — some of them at least,’ he said quietly. ‘They have all we can never have: they can marry who they want, take whatever job they want, even dress as they wish. And what do they do with all the freedom? They get computers to match them up romantically; and wear whatever a few fashion designers decide is the next “new black”. Most of them are like a horde of gryphons, all following the leader, taking the jobs they’re expected to take. Even though they’re free to dream, to make their own choices, they prefer to do work someone else tells them to do, and take holidays someone else has dreamed up for them.’
‘Not all of them,’ I said. I could have added, ‘Once, a long time in the future, there was a selkie who chose to mix flour and water into dough, who sacrificed everything to make the best pizza in the world.’ But I didn’t. For even Gaela had chosen to go back to selkie life again.
‘I’d better give the humans the anti-love drops,’ I said instead. ‘They’ll be waking up soon.’
I flew down from the branch and squeezed a good helping of anti-love juice into Lysander’s eyes, then moved his head slightly so it would be Helena he saw when he woke.
I hesitated, then left Demetrius alone and flew back up to Puck.
‘All will be well,’ he said.
‘Yes, all will be well,’ I repeated dully, just as a mob of long-legged dogs bounded through the trees, then stopped to sniff the sleepers.
I could hear Hippolyta’s voice. She sounded happy, even excited.
‘I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,’ she said, ‘when in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear with hounds of Sparta.’
She came nearer, arm in arm with Theseus. A handful of their court followed them at a discreet distance.
I recognised Egeus and grinned. Too bad, old grump, I thought. This wasn’t going to be a good day for fathers who ordered their daughters to marry their drinking mates.
‘Never did I hear such gallant chiding,’ Hippolyta continued. ‘For, besides the groves, the skies, the fountains, every region near seem’d all one mutual cry. I never heard so musical a discord, such sweet thunder.’
Theseus smiled at her. Yes, I thought, there was genuine admiration for a warrior there, as well as the enchanted love. He’d never have found a woman like Hippolyta among the ladies of his court with their primped hair and their jewels and soft silk slippers. She could even declaim beautifully and, trust me, most declaimers didn’t.
‘My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,’ Theseus informed her. ‘Their heads are hung with ears that
sweep away the morning dew.’
He wasn’t bad at declaiming either, I thought.
‘Crook-kneed, and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls,’ he continued. ‘Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, each under each. A cry more tuneable was never hollaed to, nor cheered with horn, in Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly. Judge when you hear —’ He stopped as he noticed the sleeping lovers. ‘But, soft! What nymphs are these?’
Egeus stumped forward. ‘My lord,’ he yelped, sounding like a toad someone had sat on, ‘this is my daughter here asleep! And this, Lysander!’
For a moment I thought Egeus was going to kick Lysander in the ribs. Then he noticed the others.
‘This is Demetrius,’ he said wonderingly. ‘And here’s Helena, old Nedar’s Helena. I wonder of their being here together.’
Theseus exchanged a glance with Hippolyta. They both obviously had exactly the same idea about why young lovers might sneak out into the wood at night.
Theseus grinned, then patted Egeus soothingly. ‘No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May, and hearing our intent, came here to grace our solemnity.’
Egeus didn’t look convinced; even he wasn’t that dim-witted. But how could he contradict his king?
Theseus winked at Hippolyta, then added quickly, ‘But speak, Egeus. Is not this the day that Hermia should give answer of her choice?’
‘It is, my lord,’ said Egeus, glad to be self-righteous again.
Theseus gazed at the four sleepers. One of the hounds lifted its leg on Demetrius, but he didn’t wake.
‘Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns,’ Theseus said, just as another dog began to lick Helena’s face. She woke with a shriek.
The others stirred, then sat, rubbing their eyes. I saw the moment when they stopped trying to work out where they were or why they were there, and realised that all that mattered this second was that they were lying down in the presence of royalty and could be beheaded for such disrespect.
Hermia clambered to her feet first. She gave Lysander a cautious glance. He gave her a reassuring half-smile back. Hermia bit her lip, obviously longing to speak, but unable to with royalty gazing at her, not to mention her enraged father.
Theseus grinned at the rumpled foursome with twigs in their hair and prickles in their clothes. ‘Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past: begin these wood-birds but to couple now?’
‘Pardon, my lord,’ said Lysander, trying to look as if such an activity had never crossed his mind.
‘I pray you all, stand up,’ Theseus told the still prone Helena and Demetrius, trying not to laugh as Demetrius noticed the wet patch on his tunic. Then he looked from Demetrius, now sniffing the stain and obviously hoping it was dew, to Lysander. He said more seriously, ‘I know you two are rival enemies. How comes this gentle concord in the world, that hatred is so far from jealousy, to sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?’
Lysander shook his head. ‘My lord, I shall reply amazedly, half sleep, half waking. But as yet, I swear, I cannot truly say how I came here. But, as I think,’ he glanced at Hermia, a glance of love and determination, then raised his chin, ‘for truly would I speak, and now do I bethink me, so it is — I came with Hermia hither. Our intent was to be gone from Athens, safe from the peril of the Athenian law.’
Egeus gave a small scream of rage and turned to Theseus, all righteousness and fury. ‘Enough, enough, my lord, you have enough! I beg the law, the law, upon his head. They would have stolen away. They would, Demetrius, thereby to have defeated you and me, you of your wife and me of my consent, of my consent that she should be your wife.’
Demetrius looked up from the stain on his tunic. He’d obviously given up hoping it was dew. Then he noticed Helena staring at him with her puppy eyes. His face softened just a little.
He looked back at Theseus. ‘My lord, fair Helena told me they would creep away through this wood. And I in fury followed them,’ he admitted. ‘Fair Helena followed me.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘But, my good lord, I know not by what power — but by some power it is — my love to Hermia, melted as the snow, seems to me now . . .’
Oh, great, I thought. Another declamation. And Demetrius’s verbiage was almost as bad as Bottom’s.
‘. . . as the remembrance of an idle gaud,’ continued Demetrius, obviously proud of his turn of phrase, ‘which in my childhood I did dote upon. And all the faith, the virtue of my heart, the object and the pleasure of mine eye, is only Helena. To her, my lord, was I betrothed ere I saw Hermia: but, like in sickness, did I loathe this food. But, as in health, come to my natural taste, now I do wish it, love it, long for it, and will for evermore be true to it.’
Demetrius took Helena’s hand, bowed over it, then kissed it. Helena blinked, then gave a cautious smile.
Hermia moved closer to Lysander. They put their arms around each other and looked defiantly at their king, the courtiers and Hermia’s father.
I held my breath. If Theseus decided to put Hermia to death for refusing to marry Demetrius, I suspected Lysander would follow her, whether it was to be burned at the stake or walled up in a cave.
Theseus looked at Hippolyta again. She smiled at him. To my surprise there was the love glow and respect of equals and friends between them, as well as the enchantment.
Puck nudged me. ‘Told you so,’ he whispered.
Theseus gave a rueful shrug. He would do what his lady so obviously wished.
‘Fair lovers,’ he began, ‘you are fortunately met. Egeus, I will overbear your will; for in the temple at our wedding these couples shall eternally be knit too.’
Excellent! Three human marriages to begin the Midsummer’s Eve revels. Titania would be delighted.
‘And, for the morning now is something worn,’ Theseus went on, ‘our purposed hunting shall be set aside. Away with us to Athens; three and three, we’ll hold a feast in great solemnity. Come, Hippolyta.’
The dogs galloped away in front, as good hunting dogs did. Theseus and Hippolyta followed, hand in hand; then Demetrius, gallantly arm in arm with Helena, and Egeus hobbling next to him, obviously hoping to change Demetrius’s mind — and the King’s — before he got a son-in-law he loathed. Hermia and Lysander came next. They looked tired and dazed; she had prickles in her hair, and his hands and face had been scratched by brambles. But you could have woven another sun out of their happiness.
At last they were all gone. Puck yawned and stretched, then flexed his wings.
‘Time for a nap,’ he said. ‘You’d better get a few zzzs too, before the revels tonight. You want to be fresh for your wedding. Ah, I remember mine . . . an arch of jonquils, bluebells and anemones . . .’
‘Our arch will be pliers held by Tooth Fairies,’ I said.
‘You’ll be happy,’ he promised. ‘Trust me, boy. You will love her all your life.’
‘I know,’ I said. That was the worst thing of all.
CHAPTER 14
Puck flew off, still yawning. I stayed where I was, sitting on the branch, letting the breeze stroke my wings. It smelled of dogs and olive trees. It smelled real.
Soon I’d be back in Fairyland, surrounded by the scents of honeysuckle and roses, Dew Brew and whatever flower the Queen fancied this week. It would be beautiful. It always was. But I couldn’t haul up the energy to TAP myself over there. It had been quite a week. Or ten thousand years, whichever way you wanted to look at it.
Suddenly someone came tramping under the trees nearby. I peered through the branches. It was Bottom, the weaver, with his own head now, which was an improvement unless you were fond of donkeys. I’ve always liked donkeys.
Bottom was presumably off to the Athenian palace to join his friends in the play for Theseus and Hippolyta’s wedding. He looked a bit confused and not terribly happy.
‘Sir Bottom!’ I called.
He blinked at me as I fluttered down to him. ‘Monsewer Peasebottom . . . I thought you were just a dream. Such a dream I thought I had, yet here you are. Mon
sewer Peasebottom —’
‘Peaseblossom,’ I corrected him.
‘Ah, methought perchance we were related.’ He looked even more despondent. ‘So that was not a dream last night? The woman with the lustrous hair a-stroking me? For if it were real, I am not sure what my wife will say.’
He wasn’t very bright, but he didn’t deserve what had been done to him.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It was a dream. It still is. Midsummer is the time for dreams.’
‘Ah, good,’ he said, still looking at me warily as I fluttered at his eye height.
‘Sir Bottom, what would you have if you could choose anything in the world?’ I asked. I hoped it would be something fairy gold could buy.
‘Why, sir,’ he said readily, with no need to ponder the question, ‘I would like to love my job. I am a weaver, the son of a weaver, journeyman to a weaver. I married a weaver’s daughter when I were apprenticed to her father. All day I weave, except for feast days such as this. Weaving this week and the next —’
‘I get the idea,’ I said.
Bottom shook his head. ‘But I do not love the craft. I cannot love it. Wool thread all day, and wool blankets at night. At times I fear I will drown in wool. I hate the smell of wool. I would make beauty in the world, Monsewer Peaseblossom, but how can I make beauty out of wool?’
‘Have you a thread of wool about you, sir?’
I fluttered over the pouch on his belt while he pulled out a few strands of wool, dirty and knotted. He held them out to me.
‘Look up,’ I said, ‘and open your eyes wide, then look straight down again at your hands.’
I pulled out my trusty flask of love potion, making sure it was the right one. Two drops, in his big brown eyes.
He looked down. ‘Wool!’ he exclaimed, as if he had never seen it before. He lifted the threads to his nose ecstatically. ‘Wool! The scent of it, sir! The breath of it! You know what I’m going to do with this wool, Monsewer Peaseblossom?’
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