by Jane Yolen
“You can get a stamp and an envelope at the PO, dahlin’.”
“PO?”
She cocked her head to one side like a slightly demented dove. “Post Office.”
When I still looked puzzled, she added, “The mail place, honey. You ain’t from here now, are ya?”
I shook my head, and she explained in patient detail how to get there.
As it was some way to the place of mails, and I still had so much of the food Jamie Oldcourse had bought for me, I did not buy anything but two apples to eat along the way, with a promise to return. She smiled at me, her teeth white against the dark skin.
“You do that, dahlin’,” she said. “I’ll be here.”
“And the Man of Flowers?” I ventured.
“Old Juan? He’s home sick. So he says. But the Yankees are playing today, so you know . . .” And she winked at me, which changed her face from a stranger’s to someone so familiar and Puck-like, I almost hugged her even though I had no idea who the Yankees were or what they played.
“Now remember, dahlin’, it’s two times to the right, cross the street, and then left and . . .”
* * *
SO I DID THE TURNINGS she suggested, and found the place of mails with the big eagle sigil on the wall. I did not see any of my sister’s men in blue, but there was a lady behind some bars—caged like a farmer’s cows—who told me to put the letter into an envelope and seal it. I wrote Meteora’s new name and address on the front, my cow name and address on the back, paid one of my pieces of paper money for the envelope (that was the name of it) and the stamp and was given coins “in change.” The lady behind the bars promised me it would reach Meteora in two days.
“Two days?” Complaint edged into my voice. “But I thought this is eagle mail. The dove can do it in that time and for nothing more than some honey water and bread.”
She looked at me as if I were crazy and I looked at her as if she were mad. Then she glanced over my shoulder and said, “Next!”
For a moment we stared at one another, and then the man behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m next,” he said, his face wreathed in anger.
“I am Mabel and I am here.”
The people behind him mumbled. One put her hand in the air, her middle finger extended toward me, which carried some dark magic at the core, though not enough to hurt me.
The impatient man stepped around me. The people behind him elbowed me aside. And so I was dismissed.
I walked out confused but still trusting that what Meteora said about the eagle mail was true, and that she would get my letter. However, I kept its contents in my head just in case, saying the words over and over as I walked along the street, not caring which way I was going or who crossed the road to get away from me.
26
The Dog Boy Seeks But What Does He Find?
My father left blood spoor at my door in the hind end of the night. It was a child’s blood, one not yet weaned. I had to follow; there was never any choice. Gods, how I hate him. And how he feeds on that hate.
The trail led me to the park as I knew it must. He does not like the gray buildings. They heap him. They leech him. They age him as they age all fey who settle here in the human towns. Green runs in our veins like sap. It keeps us young.
If I am ever to throw my father over, it will not be in the park but in the grayness or on the iron trail. Yet I went to the park. The blood called and I had to follow.
He waited beneath a linden tree, its heart-shaped leaves serrated like the teeth of little saws. I think he waited under the linden because of the leaves. He loves such metaphors. He is telling me by waiting there that I must do his bidding or he will put a saw to my heart. And I believed that. I am his child and his dog only so long as I am useful to him. After that, I am mere meat.
“Welcome, son,” he said in his growl of a voice. Sometimes he laughs, but not this time. I was glad of that. His laugh is worse than his growl. I hate these visits, but I cannot stop them. Small favors, my mother said before she died, meaning that he did not visit her anymore, had already torn her up so much inside that there was nothing left but a hollow. I wish he would do such small favors for me.
He stood there, arms crossed. He did not open them to me. It was not that kind of a relationship. “Welcome once again.”
I nodded at him and could not help but smell the blood on his cap. It was more of the child’s blood. He always dips that awful cap in his kill. A woman will weep tonight, I thought. And then I thought—many women will weep tonight. That is the human way. As my mother had wept. For herself. For me.
“I need you to seek.”
Of course he did. That is all I am to him. His hound. His Dog Boy. The one who seeks.
He told me no name. Names do not help me in the finding. But he gave me a taste of the scent he wanted me to follow. I was surprised. It was a strange combination of human and fey, a bit fetid as if the two had not combined well.
“Do not kill,” he said, “but follow closely. There is another who may come too, attracted by the light of your prey. Younger, sweet-fleshed and fey. Bring that one to me. And if you are successful, I will unleash you at last.”
I nodded and looked down at the ground, never into his eyes. Did he mean what he said? I doubted that. But I did not fully disbelieve. If I thought I would never be free of him, I would have to kill us both.
Instead I pissed on the roots of the linden as he watched. He laughed, thinking I did it to mark my territory, but I did it to dishonor him. He knew that as well, but would not let himself know.
Until it is too late, I told myself. It was my only hope.
27
Meteora Finds the Changelings
I had been in Baba Yaga’s house for almost ten days. Three days addled and tripping over my once nimble feet, two days learning how to behave as a woman of my new age, four days waiting for mail that would not come, and seven nights awakening to the sounds of a young woman crying her heart out in the rooms below mine.
That night, I did what I had never done before and knocked on a mortal’s door.
“Who is it?” she answered, her voice hardly more than a rough whisper. I could hear the dog snuffling beside her.
“Are you all right?” I asked her. “Can I be of help? Your tears have drawn me here . . .”
Whatever else I meant to add was interrupted by the door being violently flung open. The girl stood before me, her green hair like a patch of forest grass that had not been rained upon in days. She was wearing only a long shirt with nothing under it, and she smelled ever so slightly of mold. Along the side of her neck I saw the mark of trouble etched in her skin. Swaying, one hand clutching the door as though she might fall, she closed her eyes.
“Perhaps I could make you some tea . . .” I reached out a hand to steady her.
Her eyes snapped open and she backed away from me in alarm. “Go away, get out of here. I told you before just leave me alone. All of you, get out of my life.” She shut the door hard in my face and I heard her retching on the other side.
I stood there perplexed. I had never spoken to the girl, yet she spoke to me as if she knew me. I was ruffled, my pride insulted at being confused with someone else, someone clearly undesirable. But what could I do? My help had been refused so I returned upstairs. She has the dog, I thought, and put her out of my mind.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS FULL of sun so I went in the afternoon to a coffee shop where I knew I could purchase a meal “to go,” then took myself to a nearby wooded park. I sighed as I sat down, not even minding the dampness of the grass beneath me. Reaching into a paper bag, I took out a little bundle wrapped in white paper and opened it with curiosity. All I could recall in the busy crush at the coffee shop counter was asking for something named “5,” and that it contained cheese and no animal flesh.
I smiled down at the sight of two slabs of brown bread, thickly buttered, layered with green sprouts, tomatoes, ruby onions, and slices of golden cheese.
In my pocket I had two peaches that I had purchased the day before at the Co-op, and in the other pocket, three buttery sugar cookies, also from the Co-op’s bakery.
I felt elated basking in the late summer sunset, buoyed by an unexpected rush of happiness. Everything seemed more important, more precious, and more beautiful for its fleeting temporal nature. I watched young couples walking together on the little paths, suddenly aware of how many children and infants there were in this world. And how few had been in mine. Two towheaded girls, dressed in bright pink T-shirts proclaiming them “fairy princesses” skipped in front of their parents, stopping every now and then to pick the last of the dandelions, which they waved around as if they were wands capable of granting wishes.
Perhaps, it will not be so bad to live here, I thought. I inhaled deeply, smelling the fusty dampness of the earth, the sugary sweetness of the little girls, the dusty fur of a dog that stopped to sniff the uneaten sandwich on my lap. There was chatter and talk all around me; the scolding of a squirrel, the squeals of delight as children ran through the park, the insistent calls of their parents reining them back to their sides. Someone was singing—or perhaps it was the noise that seeped through those little white buds the students liked to wear in their ears.
And then abruptly, I heard a familiar voice, sharp and unhappy, pitched like a magpie defending its nest. It was coming from just behind me, back in the shelter of the trees. I turned my head to the side, not wanting to let on I knew they were there. I needed to see them first, believe with my eyes what my ears had revealed.
The three were sitting on the ground beneath the spreading branches of an old oak, its leaves already turning rusty brown. Though they were wearing more clothes—mostly dirty T-shirts and torn bluish trousers—I knew them at once. The boy had the same dark hair shaved close to his scalp in spiral patterns. The girls wore their hair in thick-snarled plaits, tied off with beads and bits of black feathers.
I turned back to watch the passersby on the sidewalk, but tuned my ear to the squabbles of the three behind me. Why are they here? I had left them far behind on the edge of the forest that rainy night they pushed me toward the iron dragon, fleeing as soon as Baba Yaga grabbed my wrists. How did they know where to find me?
I heard them quiet down as the tips of my ears flickered, catching the sound of their voices. It is no good, I thought, they will leave if I don’t stop them. I bundled up my lovely sandwich back in its wrapping, grabbed my paper teacup, and stood up. Behind me there was silence.
I smiled broadly and walked briskly toward them. The grass was moist and springy beneath my feet. They looked startled and rose as a group, prepared to flee.
“Wait!” I called. “Don’t go. I bring a gift.”
They hesitated, the smaller girl pulling on the oldest boy’s T-shirt. As changelings they had learned long ago in the Greenwood to live on almost nothing but air. But human children needed more to sustain them and I knew they would remember the taste and pleasure of food. I handed the boy my white bag and he snatched it from me as though I might change my mind. He put his face into the bag and sniffed. The others stared at him expectantly. He motioned them to sit down and took out the sandwich. As the girls watched, licking their lips and wiping their dirty fingers on their even dirtier clothing, the boy carefully tore the sandwich into three sections, leaving one for himself and handing out the other two pieces.
I sat down on the ground beside them and pulled out the two peaches from my pocket. I split them into halves and gave them to the children. The older girl squealed and snatched the sweet fruit from my hand. But the smallest child, the girl with the heart-shaped face, reached out a grimy hand and patted the hidden lump in my pocket.
I laughed and withdrew the cookies for them. Then I presented the children with the half-filled cup of now cold tea and they passed it around, swallowing quick sips in between bites of bread and cheese, fruit and cookies. I leaned back, quietly waiting for them to finish eating.
It did not take long, and looking almost abashed at the eagerness with which they had accepted the gift of food, the eldest boy lowered his head.
“We are in your debt,” he said softly.
“Not at all,” I replied. “You have already helped me once before, that night—”
“Shhh. Don’t speak of that,” he said, darting glances over his shoulder to be certain there was no one to hear our conversation.
“Why are you here?” I asked, lowering my own voice. “How did you find me? And why would the Queen wish to spy on me? Except to convince herself I am as miserable as she hoped?”
“Too many questions,” the boy said.
“We are to watch . . . and wait . . .” said the older girl. Her long narrow face ended with a pointed chin but her golden eyes were large and round as an owl’s.
“For what?”
“For what comes of it,” she shrugged, and retucked a black feather into her braid.
“Comes of what?” I asked, growing more confused and alarmed.
“They are looking for it,” the little girl said, licking the last of the cookie crumbs off of her palm.
“For what? And who’s they?” I asked.
The boy gave a coarse laugh. “Riddles are not meant to be answered like tallying sums in a shopkeeper’s ledger. Though you appear old and plump as a vintner’s wife, you’ve not lost your true nature to seek beneath the signs. Use it instead. We’ll give you no more, for it means danger for us.”
They stood and I did too, albeit with more effort. The boy reached down a hand to help me. They may have been half wild, but they still remembered the rules of hospitality. I wished at that moment that I had more food, anything to keep them close and talking to me. But I knew I had nothing left to give them but one rare and private thing.
“I trust you,” I said to the boy, who seemed to be the leader. His brown eyes widened with surprise. And it was true. I saw them—like me—as outcasts longing to return home. We were all pieces of a game, not certain of the hands that moved us. Mice hiding in the pantry of big cats. And mice need to stick together. I leaned forward to the boy, and spoke my true name into the shell of his ear.
His eyes glistened for a moment before he blinked it away. He turned to leave, and then as if thinking twice about it, he abruptly turned back and leaned in close. He closed his hand around my ear and whispered his own name, Awxes.
I touched his shoulder, grateful for the gift. Whatever else they were doing here, I believed they meant me no harm.
I watched them depart, strolling through the shadows of the trees until they melted into the green leaves. And as I walked back toward the path, I heard the harsh cawing of crows and saw them break through the canopy of tree branches to streak above me, their black wings stark against the fading sunlight.
I walked home in the encroaching twilight, the newly lit streetlamps casting shadows across the sidewalks and streets. A chilly breeze rustled through the trees. I could smell rain approaching, only moments away, and hurried my steps. By the time I turned down Farewell, I was shivering in a brusque wind that rifled through leaves and caused the branches to moan and saw against one another. I dashed into the house as the first heavy spatters fell from the sky.
For once the house was quiet. No troll music, no barking dog, no crying girl. I walked up the steps and got halfway up the first floor, then stopped and turned around. It was a vain hope, but I wanted there to be a letter. I wanted to feel my sister close to me.
I looked at my black letterbox, and through the opening spotted the envelope. Trembling I fetched it out and saw the words written in delicate lines across the front. At first, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry to see the name I had chosen written there and in the corner, hers—“Mabel Farmer.” I burst out laughing. We sounded like nothing more than a pair of milk cows. I pressed the letter to my breast and mounted the stairs, desperate for news.
* * *
LATER, SITTING IN THE KITCHEN, lit only by a single candle, I replied. Out
side the rain lashed the windows, a dismal harbinger of the coming autumn. I was wrapped in one of Baba Yaga’s woolen shawls, a pot of strong tea to hand. The cat slept on the chair curled into a knot, with her tail firmly pressed over her face. I was grateful when the hands suddenly appeared, the feminine hand in a lacy fingerless mitten, and showed me how to send heat into the little vents near the floor. The house slowly warmed, but I could not remove the chilled sorrow from my heart. I tried to put my muddled thoughts into words that might enlighten Serana but not reveal too much—for I thought of the changelings somewhere outside, huddled in this cold rain, and I didn’t want to say anything that might bring them harm.
Folding the letter, I slipped it into an envelope and put a stamp on it. I wrote down Serana’s address, feeling how odd it was that there was this place I had never seen, that held the body of my sister. I could not imagine how she might look standing in a room of such a place, staring out the windows and searching for my face.
Much later I got into bed, pulling the coverlet over my shoulders and up to my ears. I was almost asleep when I heard the girl below me crying again, her long sobs wrenched from deep within a wounded heart. And try as I might, I could not imagine what horror coiled so deeply in her breast.
28
Meteora’s Melancholy
Dearest Serana,
You were right. I should never have gone downstairs to that weeping girl. What was I thinking? I offered solace and the surly child snapped at me, bid me leave at once, and shut the door in my face.
Dreadful-looking creature she is too. Woeful offspring of misery. Cropped hair, sticky as thistle and a poisonous green. Her eyes beneath all the black running tears might well have been pretty, but they were red and baleful with weeping. And no wonder she was crying and wretched. Some UnSeelie trickster has tattooed the front of her neck with the twisted sign for trouble and its aura swirls around her. Take care, my gentle sister, we are not alone in this world and we do not have the protection of our court. And certainly not that of the Queen.
