by Jane Yolen
“Lady, if you have money, what the hell are you doing sleeping out here in the park?” he asked. “Of course your iPod got stolen.”
“What is an iPod?” I looked around for the creature and saw nothing.
“What you been smoking, lady?”
“I do not smoke.”
“Well, you’re sure high on something. You still flying?”
I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “I have not been able to fly since the Greenwood.” And then I remembered the brownies and how their magic had made me laugh and cry simultaneously. Sticking out my tongue, I tried to taste them again, as if their magic still lingered in my mouth. But it was only a sour morning breath.
“Oh—just get out of here, before the kids come and I won’t take you in.” He pulled me to my feet. “Oh yeah, and no littering. Stow those papers in the can.”
I figured out he meant me to deposit the large flapping papers in a nearby bin. Then I walked in the opposite direction the blue man had taken. Nothing was familiar. Suddenly, I feared where I was, and when I was. Had I slept away the afternoon and the night? Or had the magic lost me more time than that? A year? A generation? All the tales of faerie time ran through me like a river. But the trees were still in their late summer sheen. I had to believe not too much time had passed.
Either I have lost a day or found one, I thought, but three things were certain. First, humans have magic here in their village of New York. Second, I was suddenly and overwhelmingly hungry. And third, I was lost.
My heart beat as loudly as black Chim’s drum. Now the sour taste in my mouth was fear. I thought then to pray to the gods of the Greenwood, yet I doubted they could hear me here, even with the trees and flowers of the Riverside Park.
As I stood dithering on the walkway, turning this way and that, a stranger put a hand on my arm and said, “Are you lost, old dear?”
Old dear? The woman was surely twice as old as I, her face a mask of wrinkles with two dark eyes peering out like currants in a doughy bun.
“Thank you, good dame,” I said to her, “but I am looking for the Number 13 and the Man of Flowers whose store is filled with fruta. Do you know them? Or perhaps the place where the made-woman lies with her face near the water.” If I could get back there, I thought, I might be able to find my way to my rooms.
“Goodness, where do you come from?” she asked. “Czechoslovakia or summat?”
Because she said goodness, I knew her for someone on the Seelie side, and answered back with the same good grace. “Summat.” It seemed a safe response.
She laughed. “Summit, New Jersey?”
Does everyone here know of this New Jersey? And is it important? I was mulling this over when she pointed to the corner, crooking her finger to indicate the direction. “I bet you mean that large statue called Memory; if memory serves, it’s that way. Hah!” She laughed at herself. “Sure, I can take you there. But I can’t do more than that. I’m on my way to see my grandchildren.”
The touch of her hand on mine led me to turn her hand over and touch the palm. There was a knot under the lifeline. “There will be one more grandchild,” I said. “At last, a girl.” She would not live to see it. But at least I could give her this.
“How do you . . . know . . .” her voice trailed off.
“I accept your help,” I said. Now that I would not be beholden to her for it. Though I would not have been beholden for long. The hand never lies, though the mouth can.
“Oh, I hope you’re right. After five grandsons, a girl would be . . .” Her wrinkles all seemed to turn up at the thought.
“I am always right,” I said.
* * *
WE WALKED THE REST OF the way in silence along the winding walkways until at last I realized where I was. “This is it!” I said aloud. We were right across from the made-woman, and I stood still for a moment contemplating her. There was something infinitely sad about her that I had not recognized before. Perhaps the children bouncing on her side had distracted me. Perhaps the sound of the music.
I saluted the grandmother, who walked swiftly away from me, and then I retraced my steps from the day—or days—before. I remembered the way, going steadily along the walk where the young people on wheels had run by me, up the stone waterfall, over the road.
As I hurried along, I nodded at other walkers on the street as if I knew them, and a few of them nodded back. Small magicks, I thought. A smile elicits a smile.
At the spindly tree not far from Number 13, nestling near one of the stinking bags, something caught my eye. I bent down, knowing that if one does not look, one can never find. It was a stone I had not seen before, blue and green. A cleansing stone. I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket. After all, one must never ignore a gift.
Then I headed toward the stairs up to my home. Home! I wondered that I could call it so, after only a day or two away, but home it had become.
32
Serana’s Scare-bird
I meant to go back out and buy food, but after I washed my face and changed my clothes, I lay down for a moment, and woke at midnight. Turned over, and woke again into the brightness of day.
Raising the window, I leaned out to get fresh air. Below me, huddled on my doorstep was something large and dark. For a moment I thought it a bag of garbage that had broken apart. Angry that I would have to clean it up, I started to pull back inside, but the thing moved, shook itself all over, lifted its head up, and glared at me through befogged eyes.
Quickly, I made the sign against the Dark, the two fingers crossed before me—male over female, life over death—and hurried downstairs to shoo it away. When I came close, the creature said a single word in a rough voice, the sound a shoe might make over stone.
“Sanctuary.” The voice was human, young. Then he bent over again, put his head down on his arms, and promptly began to snore.
What else could I do? He had asked for sanctuary, an old fey custom that the humans have taken over, honoring it more in the breach than in the doing.
I raced to the Man of Flowers’ shop where I quickly gathered apples, nuts, goat’s cheese, eggs, milk, tea for a tisane, and an assortment of herbs, all ones I had not bought before. I would think about what to do with them later. I gave all the money in the sachet into Juan Flores’ hands, glad that the strange bird-boy had pressed them back on me. “I was told you were sick. I feared for your safety.”
He nodded. “I had the flu.”
“Flu.” I rolled the word around in my mouth. “Is that like flying?”
“Only when the fever is at its height.” He smiled, almost shyly.
Even though I did not understand, I smiled back. Then I took a deep breath. “I like the bark-colored lady who was here the other day. Tell her I found my way to the mails with her good help.”
“The malls?” He shook his head. “We don’t have any around here.”
“The place of mails. Where one can send an eagle letter.” I saw understanding light his face.
He laughed, head back, full-throated and easy. “The bark-colored lady is named Nita. And I will give her your thanks, dona.” He handed me back money since the trade was not for all that was in my purse. Then he packed my purchases into two sacks and walked me to the door.
Hurriedly, I walked back to my home, juggling the packages.
The stairs were now in sight and I hoped I had purchased the ingredients to make something the scare-bird could keep down. Also I hoped to clean him up and make him safe. Sanctuary he had asked for and sanctuary he would get. I am still a good fey.
But when I got back to Number 13, the scare-bird was gone. The stairs were empty. He had left nothing behind but a stink.
* * *
IT WAS ANOTHER TWO DAYS before he returned, the same day that the Collectors came in their clanking vehicle and took away the black bags at last. People on the streets celebrated, waving and laughing and cheering them on. The sun was out, making the streets suddenly sparkle.
I would ha
ve waved and danced with the others, but I had no time to spare. The scare-bird sat on my steps, went away and came back like a shadow, depending upon the height of the sun. He did not speak to me again in all that time, and I wondered if I had simply misheard the word sanctuary. I tried several times to coax him upstairs, but he was like a wild thing that would not be caged. He was much taller than I but thin, his dark hair tangled practically beyond redemption, with a shadowy beard on his chin. He shivered in his frequent sleeps on the steps, moaning and making sounds but no real sentences.
So I left him tisanes and little packets of cheese and sliced apples, the goodness of each leaching into the other. He must have eaten what I set down beside him, for there was nothing left, not even crumbs for the birds or the persistent gray squirrel that haunted my stoop whenever the scare-bird took off. Indeed, the birds and creatures seemed frightened of him. Any blanket or toweling I put around him, he shrugged off. I never left either blanket or towel outside, but took them back inside, washing each thoroughly before using them myself.
Once I touched the scare-bird as he dreamed, picking up his hand to read the palm. The tremors that ran through him would have made a mountain collapse. His blood was filled with bile, the lifeline kinked like a broken promise. I should have let him go, but stupidly I had already made him mine.
And then a man with the sigil of an eagle on his breast came to the step as I was sitting there next to the boy. He thrust three envelopes into my hand. Two were not for me, but one had Mabel’s name. I tore it open and read it right there.
I wondered that Meteora had not turned that dreadful green-haired girl into a toadstool and then remembered that she could not. Woeful offspring of misery indeed. I put a hand up to my own neck as if tracing an UnSeelie tattoo. I could not believe that all this was coincidence. Chim the dark prince, May who cooked magical food that made two days and nights fly by. And perhaps even this scare-bird, though he seemed more lost than wicked. But what were the connections—besides evil being attracted to good, besides all of us being fairies thrust out of Faerie into a world of iron, stone, and dark?
Oh my sister, I thought, you have the weeping girl, I have the dreaming boy. What are we to make of this? Everything—or nothing?
When the scare-bird stood, looked about wildly, and left me this time, I went upstairs to write. Whether my letter went by eagle or dove, it could not go until I wrote it. Keeping Meteora’s newest missive by my hand, I began.
It took me all day and half the night and I used up five pieces of my precious paper, crossing out words, phrases, entire sentences, then writing them all over again. But at last I was done and put the letter in the envelope. I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. I would go to the place of mails and send it off in the morning.
My dear Meteora:
I sit here in the growing dark, which had once been such a friend. Not even a candle stub to pierce the gloom for new candles are expensive and so I husband them carefully. I am cold, cold Meteora, who was once so warm. Fire shot through my veins and I could dance till dawn. The partners we had then: the daft little fauns with their capering legs and high, trilling giggles. The village men, half drunk on our wine, half drunk on our beauty.
What I miss are not the glamours, nor the dances, nor the glowworms caught in the trees for lanterns. I miss not at all the politics of the court. What I miss most are the friendships, for you are but a piece of paper and ink to me now. Human friendships seem as gossamer as their lives.
And yet . . .
And yet I think we are missing something, sister.
Let me explain. Everything we Fey do has meaning. This we know from our acorn cots. And yet, sundering us from companionship, the friendships of touch and taste and the intertwine of limbs has forced me to think as I have never thought before. I have asked myself these past gloaming days what meaning have we not understood, so deep in the gloom of these new lives?
Here, I have lighted the candle stub. See how it pushes back the dark. Where it touches the edges of the room, there is a soft glow, like those living lanterns in our trees, so much better than the human lamp overhead that gives much light but little warmth. What if we are meant to be glowworms in these last years? Shall we try to hang upon humanity’s top limbs and give them light? Is that the meaning? In other words—that green-haired child of yours—can she be tamed? Can she be helped? Can she be transmuted without our magic into her deepest, best human self? There is the question.
I have a similar child sleeping on my doorstep upon occasion who once—or so I think—made claim on me for sanctuary. He is thin as a scare-bird, his hair a toss of darkened straw. He shivers and moans in his sleep. I touched him once and his dreams spoke of monsters that would fright even a Red Cap. His blood runs with something the color of bile. His anger is as bitter as vetch. He has been vomited into the world by something even he does not dare name. There is a will-o’-the-wisp quality to him, yet the burnished steel of an unsheathed sword beneath. He is a puzzle. But I have promised that he has sanctuary here.
Oh, I know what you will answer. A moment ago I would have said the same myself. We should be finding a way to return to Faerie, not trying to heal humanity’s running sores. Well, our own threw us out, Meteora, and not just because of our misplaced laughter. All we have left are these children and our glowworm dreams. Even if we cannot help them, we shall at least be back in the game, whatever game it is.
Your old dear,
Serana
33
Sparrow Buys a Present
“Damn, Sparrow, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I mean really looked at yourself?” Marti asked. She was leaning against the kitchen sink, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands.
Despite the dull ache behind her eyes that threatened to bloom into a headache, Sparrow looked up at Marti and tried to feign ignorance. “What’s the matter?” She hated the way Marti was scrutinizing her, as if she were a plant in need of tending. Something to be pushed into the light and pruned to keep healthy.
“You need to see a shrink. You’ve been sobbing your heart out every night for the last two weeks. You hardly eat, you look like a total mess. When was the last time you did laundry? Are you even going to work?”
Sparrow rubbed a hand across her eyes. The headache was beginning to pound. “Yeah, I am going to work. It’s hard. But I go because I have to eat. I’m just trying to work through something on my own, Marti. Something tough. But I think I’ve got it under control, now,” Sparrow said softly. That much was true. The last two nights, she had succeeded in beating back the demons that invaded her dreams. The burning tattoo had stopped its nighttime bleeding, and the soul-wrenching sorrow and fear that had consumed her nights was abating.
“Are you sure?” Marti sat down next to her and laid a manicured hand over Sparrow’s nail-bitten fingers.
Sparrow gave her a wan smile. Marti was dressed for her new job, a professional one in an office in town. Sparrow couldn’t remember what it was Marti did now, but she had shed her street look of vintage clothes and long braids for something much more upscale. Her mouse-brown hair, now glimmering blond and smelling of expensive shampoo, was cut and styled to a few inches beneath her chin. Her eyes had a smear of amethyst powder on the lids, and the once pale gold lashes were thick and black with mascara.
“You look beautiful today,” Sparrow said, and meant it. “That blue sweater suits you perfectly. Very classy.”
Marti blushed, and tried to wave away the compliments with a perfect berry-colored-nailed hand. “I just think you should see a counselor, or a shrink, Sparrow. You’re obviously suffering from depression. I know you’ve got your secrets, but sooner or later you’ve just got to face it once and for all.”
Sparrow reached out for a cigarette from a pack on the table and stuck it in her mouth. She dug in her pockets for a lighter and steadied her trembling hand long enough to hold the flame to the cigarette’s tip. Inhaling deeply, she held it for a moment, and then released
a veil of pale smoke. “Sometimes howling at the moon is facing it,” she said, replacing the cigarette in her mouth.
“Yeah, but it freaks out my boyfriend. In case you haven’t noticed, and I know you haven’t because you’ve been so preoccupied with howling. Mitch doesn’t want to stay here. And I hate, hate staying at his place. His roommates are pigs.”
Sparrow shrugged, meaning that she needed to fight her battles on her own terms.
Marti stood up and opened the kitchen window to let in some fresh air. “Okay, okay, I get it. You don’t need to smoke me out. I was just trying to help. When I was younger, my parents got divorced, and I went to a counselor to deal with some anger issues. It really helped me a lot to talk to someone.”
Sparrow felt instantly guilty. It wasn’t Marti’s fault that she didn’t understand how weird—not just dysfunctional—Sparrow’s life was. And a well-meaning counselor, like the ones she’d encountered in the halfway houses, wouldn’t be able to understand either. If she told them the truth about how she’d survived in the woods, they’d have considered her delusional, and locked her up and stuffed her full of mind-numbing pills.
“I know you mean well. And I am sorry about freaking Mitch out. I promise, I’ll keep it down. But you gotta let me do it my way.”
“So long as you promise me that if your way doesn’t help in a day or two, you’ll consider dropping in at the Fourth Avenue clinic and find a professional to talk to about it. I don’t want to come home and find you’ve done something horrible to yourself, you know?”
Sparrow crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray and waved away the smoke. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a thing us former street kids go through. Like the flu. It’s almost over, I promise.”
“Okay,” Marti nodded, and then glanced at her watch. “Shit, I’m late for work.” She reached for her coat hanging on the back of a chair.
