Except the Queen

by Jane Yolen

  And I, who had never even given much thought to humans before, much less worried about their being hunted either early or late, mused upon it all. Did being old change me? Or had I—by becoming old—become mortal as well, which changed my attitude toward the humans? I wanted to ask Serana. She understood these sorts of things as I did not. I would send her mail as soon as I heard from her again and could get an address. I hoped she would understand about addresses.

  * * *

  SHAKEN BY WHAT I HAD seen, I then discovered a party of boisterous louts spreading out over the steps and porch of Baba Yaga’s house. Music was hammering the air, shaking the glass windows and driving every living creature from the trees. I confess, I immediately forgot my concern for human children and in my anger would have at that moment gladly sent them all to their ruin amid the UnSeelie host.

  “Grow claws,” I admonished myself. “Be Baba Yaga.”

  I approached them, frowning and squinting my eyes in what I hoped was a look of menacing disapproval. They stared back, bleary and stupid like stunned bulls. Clearly they considered me in the wrong place and any moment would disappear and leave them to their swill. A girl came out of the house, screeching in high-pitched laughter, saw me, and stopped instantly. She went inside the house again, which I took to be a sign I had won some battle until she returned with Nick and Alex, looking irritated, their faces flushed with spirits and bad humor.

  “The music stops now,” I said, going up the steps.

  “It’s not late,” Alex complained. “We don’t have to turn it down until after ten o’clock.”

  “The music stops now,” I repeated, “or you will be removed.”

  “Yeah, fuck that,” Nick said. “We signed a lease for a year and you can’t just kick us out.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I said, raising my voice over a pounding drum and angry troll chant. I was bluffing of course. I had no idea what could or could not happen here.

  “Hey, buddy,” a man called from the shadows. “Turn it down or I’ll call the cops and stand here while they ticket you for noise and underage drinking.” He stepped forward into an oval of light cast from the porch light. He was gray-haired with a grizzled beard, but still straight and strong in limb. He held his arms ready at his sides, his legs planted as though he were prepared for trouble. He carried a small hammer in one fist, and a much used chisel in the other.

  The boys on the stairs stood awkwardly, their legs as unsteady as those of newborn colts. “Shit, I’m outta here, dude,” they muttered and sauntered down the path, edging away from the gray-haired man. He continued to watch Nick and Alex, whose angry sneers and furtive glances at each other betrayed their uncertainty.

  “Fuck,” Alex muttered as he turned abruptly and stomped into the house. In midhowl, the music stopped and a deep abiding silence filled the street.

  I turned to thank my rescuer, but he had already returned to the shadows, though I could have sworn I caught the faintest whistle of a familiar tune, a reel to which my sister and I once danced until the tall grass of a moon-swept field was well and truly trampled. And then I heard the soft sounds of cooing above in the ancient ash and rushed inside as fast as my stump-muscled legs would allow.

  * * *

  LATER, SITTING BESIDE AN OPEN window, the dove resting in my lap, I read Serana’s letter by candlelight over and over. Though it was short, the dove had labored to carry it over great distances. I touched the words, sensing in the thrum of each letter her hand on the quill. I held the paper to my nose and inhaled the scent of a foreign city, dusty and oily, mingled with Serana’s distinctive musk of pressed roses and sweet rue. I cried to know that she shared my fate, stripped of magic and locked into a hag-bound body.

  I realized that when first I saw the dove, I had hoped for better news. I wanted Serana to save me. I wanted my older sister, the farsighted one, to have saved herself and to come rescue me. But it was not to be.

  I pondered our misery, our exile, our loss. I was not like Serana, a poet full of sharp words that pierced any veil. My words were long, rambling, fumbling . . . the need to reveal themselves at greater length. No dove could carry all my words to her. It must be the eagle. So setting the dove down in a box of linen towels, along with a bit of bread crumbs and a bowl of water, I slipped from my rooms and headed down the stairs.

  I walked down the street to where I knew a sign was planted beneath a burning light. “Farewell,” it said. So— Baba Yaga’s house resided on a street with a name that mocked my loneliness. So be it. I returned to the house, now settled in the thick dark shadows of the pines, and on the porch searched for numbers. On two black boxes I saw two sets of numbers. On a hunch, I reached into one of the boxes and pulled out an envelope. I smiled, seeing the same “forever” stamp, and the address of my own house, clearly printed beneath the name “Occupant.” I decided that I was an occupant as much as anyone, so I put the letter in my pocket and went upstairs again.

  On the second-floor landing I heard again the sound of a girl crying—mournful, heart-wrenching weeping; a despair so intense it held me like a spell. It was the voice I had been hearing the last few nights. I wanted to knock, to call out, to do anything to make that pitiful wailing cease. I raised my fist, then stopped. I had a letter to write. I had my sister to think of. Indeed, I had my own deep misery to deal with. So I merely continued up the stairs to my rooms.

  On a tiny piece of paper and in the tiniest of letters, I wrote to Serana, trying desperately not to drown my poor messenger with the weight of my thoughts.

  In the morning I fed the dove, tied the rolled message to one leg, and sent him on his way. And then the waiting began again. But this time I waited in hope, not despair.

  23

  Meteora Sends a Lesson

  Dearest Sister,

  I shall tell you of my living situation only if you promise not to feel any more sorry for me than I do for myself.

  After She banished us—so close to the Solstice and the dark times—I found shelter in the attic rooms of an old building owned by Baba Yaga herself. How I met her is a tale for another letter. My first days here have been quiet but alas, the streets now erupt with students returned like rooks to a cliff and my head aches from the constant din. Were we ever that noisy? I mutter the old spells that no longer have meaning, thump around the house, and wonder how I could have become so powerless. At least Baba Yaga has her iron teeth.

  As to the Queen, she has kept her power close and does not drizzle it away. And who knew that the threads of power that surrounded us, cradled us, held us firm, could become unknotted, leaving us as weakened as we are now? As pretty seedlings we squandered our power, giving it to any who pleased us, never thinking for a moment we might be emptied of it like an upturned basket of seed.

  There is so much I want to tell you, but this little dove of yours has not the strength to carry away many pages. So let me tell you how they send long letters here. For a few coins you can purchase a little seal—called for some reason a “stamp”—with a picture of a bell with the word “forever” on it. Stick this seal on an envelope after putting your letter inside and write the following in three lines I shall include at the bottom of my letter. No doubt you see the humor in my new name, Sophia Underhill.

  Now, you must write your Mortal Name, the number, street, city, state, and code of your abode on the back of the envelope. Find a letter that surely will be in a little box by your door. It will have all the information you need. There are big blue boxes on the street with eagles painted on them, put your letter to me there and a man dressed in blue with an eagle sigil on his breast will take it from the box and bring it to me. Better an eagle than a dove, don’t you agree?

  There’s a girl that weeps every night in the rooms below. I have decided I shall go down there to see what has so ailed her. I may not be able to give her something to alleviate her sorrow, but I can still make tea and offer a comfortable shoulder. And perhaps find my own comfort in your absence.
/>   She who cries every night for you,

  M now called Sophia

  24

  Serana and Paperwork

  The minute the dove took off, I thought to go exploring. It would be a few days before he could possibly return with a letter for me from Meteora. Besides, I had a new plan. If I had to remain stuck here in this place so sogged with humanity, I knew I had to learn its twists and turns. Also, the day was pearly and I was desperate to be outside. I missed being where there was grass underfoot. Surely, I thought, in this village there has to be a green somewhere. I just wanted to find a place where flowers pied the meadow and oaks whispered secrets into a soft wind, and I could lie down among the greens and golds.

  But I needed to speak with the Man of Flowers in his bodega shop. About the village greenery first. And second—if I thought him true enough—to ask for help finding my sister. For though I could not go to her without bringing the iron rains, I thought I could perhaps tell her how to come to me.

  But to my surprise as I opened the front door, a familiar person was walking slowly up the stairs, her old peach face wearing a serene expression.

  “Jamie Oldcourse,” I said. “I have been wondering where you were.” Though of course I had not been thinking of her at that moment.

  She grinned up at me. “I was just coming to see you, Mabel.” The tinkling bells were still there in her voice.

  For a moment, I forgot who Mabel was. I remembered only in time to wipe the confusion from my face with an answering grin.

  “And why are you here now?” I asked.

  “Paperwork,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  Ah, I thought, the Law of Papers and nodded my head.

  “Come join me at a café,” she urged. “This is easier done over tea and cake.” She said it as though adding honey to a bitter brew.

  No sooner had I set foot on the stairs when the smell assaulted me. “By the moon and stars. . . .” I gasped.

  Jamie Oldcourse, unperturbed by the stench, continued chatting about paperwork.

  I was afraid to say anything, for fear of exposing my innocence. But I looked hard around me and finally saw the huge black bags of some slick material up and down the walk. They even spilled over into the road. More black bags piled up against the spindly trees. Some of them had fallen open and from what I could see, they were full of the tag ends and rag ends of dinners. So that was the awful smell! But how long had they been sitting out here in the sun? Since I had not been out for days, waiting by the window for my messenger’s return, I did not exactly have a count. But how they stank! I took out the silken patch and held it to my nose.

  “Sure is ripe,” Jamie Oldcourse said.

  “Assuredly. Do you know what has happened here?”

  “Strike.” Then seeing the blankness of my face, she added, “The garbage men have gone on strike. They refuse to collect the garbage until they have been paid more.”

  “Then pay them,” I said.

  She laughed as if I had said something amusing, and we made our way toward the café.

  Two young women dressed like men in blue striped pants and jackets stepped around me quickly as though I were unclean. A girl with hair an improbable shade of red, and with a strange small blue stick in one ear, brushed past me, talking to invisible spirits. A father carrying a child on his back nearly plowed into me. Through it all, Jamie Oldcourse gently steered me across the street toward the place of cakes.

  I soon realized that I had become invisible to almost everyone we passed, the result of being old and fat in this world. No doubt seeing the shadows that crossed my face, Jamie Oldcourse patted me on the shoulder. “Not to worry, Mabel, I shall explain more fully once we’ve had a sit-down and something to eat. You look a bit pale, dear.”

  But even after an hour sitting in the café shop, though we both drank tea and ate the most delicious cakes with the odd name of profiteroles, I still did not tell her of my invisibility, nor did I understand the importance of those papers. Except that I was to receive an “allowance” of some money, and though it was not much, it might relieve me of the task of finding work. Thus, dutifully did I sign everything she handed me, using her pen and her ink and the name she knew me by. In exchange, she gave me an envelope with some of the green bills and a paper sack of foods that she bought right there: bread that smelled sharply of chives, a glass bottle full of something called olives, another larger bottle of sparkling juice of green grapes surprisingly called white, several cheeses, and three more of the profiteroles. “Because you like them so much.”

  I was now so beholden to her, I would never be free, but that I could not help. I had to live after all, and perhaps this was the human way. But being beholden to Jamie Oldcourse is better than being beholden to someone else, I thought, as I walked quickly back to Number 13.

  * * *

  I WAITED ONLY TWO DAYS for a reply from Meteora, for this time Coo-coo-rico knew the way, but—oh!—he was a bedraggled mite. I held him close, fed him honey water and bread. Even though I was desperate to read what my sister had written, I waited until he was safe and fed before I even took the note from his leg. Attention must be given to our minions, or the world falls into pieces. The Queen should remember that.

  The letter was as tattered and torn as the dove. I unscrolled the fragment of my sister’s love and read: Dearest Sister and immediately broke into a cascade of tears. I do not remember ever weeping this way in the Greenwood. Yet here, in the gray stone walls of a human city, I cannot seem to stop myself.

  She said: “Promise not to feel any more sorry for me than I do for myself.” And I realized my tears were for both of us, apart and desperately unhappy. I gawked at Baba Yaga’s name. That my sweet sister had touched the Old Hag’s heart. Who could believe it? And then I sighed when she said so pointedly, “As pretty seedlings we squandered our power . . . never thinking for a moment we might be emptied like an upturned basket of seed corn left to scatter.” Who could have guessed she would become the wiser of us? And so she further proved, having discovered the eagle mail.

  I promised myself that once Coo-coo-rico was recovered, I would go down the street, to the Man of Flowers, and using some of the money given to me by Jamie Oldcourse to buy things at his store, ask him to show me the eagle mail. Surely, as he had been kind before, he would be so again.

  As for my address, it seemed that Jamie Oldcourse had solved that for me already, for the paper sachet with my money in it had an address on the outside with my name and many numbers, and not all of them magical, but it would have to do.

  * * *

  LATER THAT NIGHT, I PUT the bird in a little nest made of toweling, and sat down by the light of the moon to write.

  My dear Meteora:

  How your letter, the script as perfect as new ferns uncurling, made me recall those wonderful times. Wonderful except for the Queen, of course. My smallest finger itches where once magic used to reside. Your new place of residence sounds Edenic compared to mine, but to be alone and apart can make even a palace a dreary place.

  As for me, I live on a side street in a city called New York that could delight the senses if it just learned to pick up its trash. Well, perhaps “delight” is too strong a word. It would no longer so grossly offend the senses if the trash were gone. For reasons I do not understand, the collectors of the trash have refused to cart it away these last three days. It piles up on the streets in great black bags, as if the UnSeelie themselves had brought the leavings of their unholy banquets here. To think I used to love turning over a farmer’s midden heap if he forgot to leave me milk. Well, multiply that midden by a million and you have what assaults my nostrils daily.

  I stopped, thinking of how to end the letter. I remembered the women who crossed the street rather than be near me and the man with the child giving me a grim look. And the waiter at the coffee shop who refused to look me in the eye, but spoke only to Jamie Oldcourse. Had my sister suffered such slights too? And I wrote, rather more strongl
y perhaps then I meant:

  Humans really are such dregs. Forget that girl weeping downstairs, or turn her heart to stone if you can. It is better that way.

  Ever thine,

  Serana, known here as Mabel. I will tell you the story of that name someday and we will laugh at it heartily, I promise.

  Though I said to forget the weeping girl, I wondered if I would take my own advice and so easily forget Juan Flores in his shop. I suspected Jamie Oldcourse would tell me an emphatic no. She would say—all the bells in her voice tinkling—that we need all the friends we can get in this gray place. And after all, I did need him for information. So I was determined that in the morrow I would go to his shop again and with all the centuries of faerie powers of seduction behind me, make friends. After all, there was still much I had to learn.

  25

  Serana Finds the Post Office

  I awoke to a morning so sharp and clear, I thought at first I must be back in the Greenwood till I tried to rise and everything ached.

  “Oh!” I said aloud, remembering who I was and what I was now. I took a long waterfall in the white tub, the water first hot and then cold but at last just right.

  There is nothing like this hot waterfall in the Greenwood, I told myself. Or profiteroles. I could still taste them and thought I might have one for breakfast. And so it was that I began to understand that not everything in the human world was bad.

  Afterward, I dried myself, dressed in the same old dress, slipped into my shoes, grabbed my sachet of money and my letter, and went down the street to talk to the Man of Flowers. Flores was not there, but a nice lady the color of tree bark with surprised brows told me how to send an eagle letter.