Troll or Derby

by Red Tash

  As we walked on, Harlow leaned in close. “One bite of that, and you’d have bled non-stop for the rest of your life.”

  I was speechless. If I was unsure about Harlow’s intentions before, I really felt like I had no choice but to trust him now. I’d fallen down the rabbit hole, and had no idea which way was up. Could I survive this Troll Market without him?

  He came to a stop before a red tent draped with purple paisley and gold lame curtains. A blue neon palm flashed on and off, and the letters M-A-D-A-M-E Z-E-L-D-A lit up one by one beneath it. A hand-lettered sign read, “Weekend Special. Ask inside for discount.”

  “Business isn’t so good for Madame Zelda?” I asked.

  “Naw,” he said, pushing the curtain aside and ducking to step inside. “She always puts that sign out when she wants privacy. The fae are extremely suspicious of anyone who does them a favor, you know?”

  “Word.” I was wordless, though. I knew nothing about fairykind. My kind.

  A woman’s voice called out from within the tent.

  “Is that my Golden Boy?” The voice was smoky, and sounded vaguely Eastern European. A woman in a blood red turban, with a prominent hooked nose emerged from behind a black velvet curtain. “I was just watching Days of Our Lives on TiVo, darling. Can you come back in a few min—”

  Then she saw me, and gasped. Harlow stepped away from me at just the moment that I most wanted him near.

  “So,” she said, walking slowly toward me. “The time has come. Roller Deb has returned to us.” She gestured to a stiff-backed chair, and a small round table draped with a purple calico tablecloth. The only thing missing was a crystal ball. “I don’t know what Harlow has told you, but let me tell you about you and your sister.”

  Chapter 16.5

  I Will Survive

  Harlow

  My stomach tensed. My heart raced. I felt as though I would break out into a rain of sweat. What was Zelda going to say? And what price would you put on this information? Could we even believe her?

  There were a few things I was sure about, and someone had put a memory curse on me to make sure I hadn’t remembered any of them. Why? Would Zelda know?

  And what about Deb’s sister, Gennifer? I hadn’t laid eyes on the girl, but she smelled human enough, from what I had scented off Dave and Deb. Why would Dave want her? Just a simple human sacrifice? Or was there more to it than that?

  Right after my parents had died, Jarod McJagger had taken me in for a while, and there were whispers among his court that he would raise me as his own. That was before he took another wife—the blondest, most evil fairy I’d ever known. Bianca. She looked like an angel, and bit like a vampire.

  Then April came along, and Bianca gave Jag the choice between me or Dave. I got sent out with the Coach without so much as a change of clothes. Fairies are like that. They won’t give you a decent chance—not ever. Trolls, too. Put them together, and you’ve got the brawn, the brains, and the badass magic to wreak havoc on most anything. I guess that’d been Bianca’s plan, when she married Jag—take over both magical kingdoms and rule them all. But who knows. She’d been dead a long time now, too, and it wasn’t like I knew her very well back then. I was just an unlucky kid with dead parents.

  I took a deep breath and hoped this time, Zelda would give me some information I could work with. The memories were coming back, but if she would just throw me a bone, I knew I could piece it together faster.

  She’d always been prickly, though. Not a bad person—as humans went—but prickly. When the Coach brought me home from court, I remember the pained look on her face—what I now know was probably sympathy mixed with fear for her own life. There was a lot of cursing in an Eastern European language that night.

  I fell asleep in the dark, warm bedroom compartment of their oversized wooden gypsy wagon. I could hear their voices rising and falling into the night. I remember burying my head into the heavily-scented pillows, tears streaming out of me as sobs racked my body. The smell of incense reminded me of my parents, making it worse.

  When they were quiet, I got out of bed, filled my pockets with whatever food I could find in their small kitchen, and crept out the screen door. It swung shut behind me, and I panicked, looking over my shoulder to see if I’d woken them. The Coach snored, slumped forward in his seat, his finger still pointed accusingly at his wife. Zelda peeled one eye open to squint at me through the screen.

  “You’ll be just fine, Harlow,” she’d said. “I have seen it. No harm shall come to you. Go and make your way.” And with that, she’d shuffled off to the sleeping compartment to claim the bed, before the warmth I’d left behind in it faded.

  I hadn’t known which way to turn, but feeling like so much trash, so easily disposed of, I’d hopped a ride with a garbage truck, and ended up in the county dump. I was just learning to glamour. I think I must have taught myself that day. I’d spent years hiding, years alone. I’d survived—but now that I’d met Deb and the memories were coming back, I wanted more than that. I wanted to really live.

  Zelda’s flea market tent felt small and fragile. I wondered if anyone were outside listening. I wondered who was outside approaching. There were so many voices in the market, almost anyone could be stalking us through the booths at this very moment. Anything could be waiting. And while Zelda might not wish me harm, I wasn’t sure she was exactly on my side, either. Our side.

  Deb looked at me, one eyebrow arched. “Are you okay, dude? You’re muttering.”

  Embarrassment flooded me. I felt my limbs begin to turn stony, heavy, and forced myself to breathe deeply and relax.

  “Sit down, Harlow,” Zelda said patiently, as if we had all the time in the world. She gestured to her tiny table, and two empty chairs. “Zere is a bean bag chair for you, my darling.” She pointed to the corner, where an enormous grey boulder of a bean bag sat between two potted palms. “Let us have some tea and talk. Much catching up to do, yes, and no one will interrupt us. I have seen no one coming into Zelda’s tent without her foreknowledge, you can trust this.”

  But could I?

  Did I have any choice?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Zelda’s Tea

  Deb

  “Usually, you should never drink or eat anything offered to you by your fairy kin—you know this?” Madame Zelda’s skin was sort of orange, the color of the $1 recalled makeup for sale on the human side of the flea market. She smelled of heavy perfume. She seemed very grandmotherly to me. When she poured me a mug of hot tea, I didn’t hesitate to drink it.

  “You can trust Zelda,” she said. “You can trust Harlow. There are not many you should trust in this world—especially once they know who you are.”

  I nodded, as if I knew what she was talking about.

  “Tell her everything, Zelda,” Harlow said. “I told her next to nothing. She doesn’t know who she is.” He looked supremely uncomfortable on a bean bag chair the size of a Holstein, and if I hadn’t felt an impending sense of doom upon entering the tent, I’d have laughed at the absurdity of the enormous guy crushing that chair.

  “Ah,” said Zelda. “Who of us does?” She laughed at her own joke, then folded her hands together and sighed. “Well. Sip your tea, darling, and let Zelda tell you a story. You know of the prophecy?”

  “My mother mentioned a prophecy, but she’s a drunk,” I said. “She said I was supposed to be protecting my sister—like it’s my job or something. Then Gennifer disappeared and Mom thinks it’s all my fault.” I set my cup down and stared into it. Tiny tea leaves swirled in the green water.

  “And she is not your mother, either. So you run away—the Coach tells you to find Harlow, yes?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “It’s kind of a long story—wait. She’s not my mother?”

  “Ah, never mind. Zelda sees all, Zelda gets the drift, yes? You are here now, you know you are a bit, how you say? Special, different, yes? You are no trailer park homecoming queen?”

  I nodded. “That’d be my sister.
Do you know where Gennifer is?”

  Zelda closed her eyes for a moment, and I hoped she was seeing Gennifer’s location. If she did, she didn’t say. She merely took a deep breath, opened her heavily lined eyes, and squinted into my face as she grasped her cup of tea with both hands. Her pointed purple nails were set with rhinestones. They looked like glittery claws.

  “So, I think you not know much about trolls and fae. But I think you know more than you think you know!” She laughed, slapping the table and rocking some tea out of her own cup. “Did you know that there is a Troll King? And a Troll Court? No. Of course you do not know these things—I am telling you!” She laughed even harder.

  I looked over at Harlow. He smiled at me and shrugged. “Humor her,” he mouthed.

  “This Harlow. He was born in line to a throne—yes, he was! And a prophecy was made over him, fell words spoken. They said he would not remain in the court, he would not be brought up in the good graces of his father and mother—that he would live a hard life, solitary—that he would find his path back to the crown, but only after he had served the family’s debt in full.”

  “Debt?” I asked.

  “Oh, this part, even Harlow does not know, not so much. He only has idea of this.” She paused and took a sip of her tea, seemingly savoring both the drink and the suspense. “Let me see your palm, Harlow,” she said.

  He started to climb up from his bean bag, but she stopped him.

  “No, darling, you just hold your hand up. I see the thing from here.”

  Then she held up her own hand. She pointed to a crease in the middle of her palm, and looked at me. “You see this? This is the line that shows your lifework. Sometimes is called the ‘fate’ line. See mine is long and smooth? Zelda has easy life, brought up as gypsy princess. Always the friends and the money—I am lucky,” she purred.

  She put her own hand down, and nodded toward Harlow’s coarse palm. “See broken lines at the bottom? Bad childhood. See how lines twist all around his palm before they climb to top? Prophecy is right. Harlow have to make his own way in the world before he find his way back to destiny.”

  Madame Zelda stood up and crossed the room to Harlow. She stroked his dreadlocks tenderly for a moment, then she looked at me.

  “Roller Deb, you are part of Harlow’s destiny. Gennifer is part of your past, and she represented a choice for Harlow—a choice that was stolen from him. Prophecies are not kept secret in the fae community, which is too bad in this case, because it forced our Harlow and our Deb into a pickle, now, didn’t it?”

  “Madame Zelda,” I said, “I am not following you at all. How do I fit into this exactly?” I said. “Am I supposed to help Harlow, so he’ll help me save Gennifer? How does everyone know that I roller skate? I don’t get it.”

  The riddles were becoming too much to take. I wanted to throw something, break something. I reached for the tea cup. I thought I would throw it to the ground, and leave.

  Madame Zelda’s hand shot out so fast, it was a blur. Her strength surprised me, as she gripped my wrist. She forced my hand open, and the tea cup fell a half-inch onto the tabletop where it settled without spilling a drop.

  Zelda gave me a look that told me more than any tea leaf ever could. Slowly, she composed herself, and flashed a toothy smile, rife with silver and rubies—at least I think there were rubies. “I know these things are hard to understand, my dear. Open your palm to me.”

  It felt like she would have forced it open, anyway, if I didn’t go along, so I turned my hand over and let her look.

  “See, my darling? You have no fate line.” She moved her dry finger slowly over my palm. “You are strong—you are used to making your own fate, making your life the way you want it to be. Resilient.” She let go of my wrist, and closed my fist, patting the back of my hand. “Roller Deb is a fighter. Debra, you were born a Protector. You were born of Protectors. You have the blood of warriors and chiefs in your veins. My darling, Zelda knew your parents, herself. She knew Harlow’s parents. You come from good people, good fae.”

  “If I come from such good people—or fae—whatever, then why am I in such a mess? Why would anyone try to hurt us, take my sister, take me away from my real parents? How does my mom fit into all of this? I don’t understand.”

  “Only the wicked understand the ways of the wicked, my dear,” Zelda said. She stood, and Harlow scrambled out of his chair to stand as well. “You and Harlow will learn to stand together, otherwise wicked will still have its way. It’s not for Zelda to ponder the ways of power for too long—Zelda has a happy life, remember? But Harlow was born for you, and you for him, and I know that you will find the answers to these mysteries only if you journey together.”

  She walked to the back of her tent, and pulled open a curtain. “Days of Our Lives still on pause, children. Zelda help you no more.”

  Chapter 17.5

  Sunday Bloody Sunday

  Harlow

  “Wait!” I said. “Is that all you got?” I climbed out of the bean bag with some effort, but I wasn’t going to let Zelda go easily. “We have no idea what we’re up against, here. Who took my memories, to begin with? How do I get them all back? Where is Gennifer? What am I supposed to … do with Deb?”

  Zelda shrugged. She looked annoyed. “Harlow, my child—Zelda does not get involved in zese things, you know that.” She patted my cheek. “It is no hard feeling, Harlow. You are one of the good ones—Zelda knows—but a seer must be careful to stay out of the wars of others. It’s the only way we can survive. Neutrality. Like Auschwitz.”

  “You mean like Austria?” Deb said.

  Zelda winked, and disappeared behind her curtain.

  I wanted to pull her by the shoulder, yank her back into her “parlor,” force some answers out of her—but I knew there was no point.

  “Probably doesn’t know anything, anyway,” I said, in a voice loud enough for the woman to hear. “And I’m glad she didn’t take me in. Coach always said she was the worst cook he’d ever met.”

  Images of Dave flooded my mind, and I knew we needed to leave, needed to get moving. But for now, I was tired of running away. If he were here, stalking us, I’d meet him. I felt fairly confident I could force some answers out of him if I drew a big enough crowd.

  I remembered a time when we were younger—I’d been at the casino, playing in a band of trolls and fae that were serving for a season as entertainment for the king. That was when Jag was going through his more traditional “Unseelie Court” sorta phase. I even had a bandmate who played the harpsichord. I mean, say what you will about fairies, but you haven’t rocked out until you’ve heard “Smoke on the Water” played on a harpsichord.

  Dave loved to try and sabotage me. I relied on Jag and Bianca for my well-being, and that’s not saying much. I was a lonely kid in a world where I never felt safe, and music was my own refuge.

  When I sang, and the audience responded, it was the most amazing feeling. I’d have done anything for that attention to never end. It blotted out all memories of pain, all sadness, all feelings of loss. I was whole again, at least as long as the music lasted.

  Dave tried the old pig’s blood over the stage routine one night, just like that movie, Carrie. It’s not quite the big deal that it is for fairies, because some of them feed on blood, and they get really excited by it. Trolls, obviously, are not disgusted by it. But Dave had just seen the movie and I guess it was a wellspring of inspiration for the guy, because he’d locked me in a closet that same week.

  Anyway, the bucket thing failed, and pig blood rained down all over the stage next to me, but only a drop or two got on me. Certainly wasn’t the big dramatic success he was planning. It was as if someone had placed a shield charm on me, or something. I dunno.

  Well, the crowd roared with laughter, even though the blood didn’t “get” me the way Dave intended. My guitarist slipped around in it, my harpsichordist took a running start and slid through it, just for kicks, and the crowd went even crazier. We played Sunda
y Bloody Sunday and Jag beat his scepter into the ground and applauded. The whole crowd just ate it up (literally). It couldn’t have gone better if we’d planned it.

  I knew it was Dave’s doing instantly, of course. But as I was singing, I couldn’t help but notice his doings. His face had gone from disappointment, to wonder, to outright pleasure, as he informed everyone that the bloody splash had been his doing. No one dared challenge him about how it wasn’t a misfire, of course. He was the rotten little prince of the Unseelie Court. No way.

  It was following that show that I overheard Dave bragging about all the things he’d done to me that week. As long as Dave had an audience, he’d spill his guts just like a bucket of pig’s blood.

  I had a hunch that today, that was going to come back to haunt him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Have a Croak and a Smile

  Deb

  Harlow took me by the hand again, and led me outside the tent.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I was hoping she would tell us more than that, frankly.” He crossed the aisle to a booth where tiny pixies buzzed overhead, tethered on what looked to be piano strings. A woman bent at the waist, her head inside a tub, where what looked like cotton candy spun around. When she rose to upright, her hair was as wispy as cotton candy, and bright purple.

  Her shirt read “Dolly’s Delights,” and her face was printed on it. Except for the color of her freckly fair skin, she looked exactly like a life-size troll doll.

  She called out to us. “Hey, what can I get ya?” She gestured to the booth. Cellophane-wrapped frogs, mismatched plastic Easter eggs filled with wriggling shapes, and a huge tub of iced bottles were among the offerings.

  “Two Croaks, please.”

  “Want me to open them for you?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Harlow said.

  She opened the bottles and the usual tiny fog of carbonation rolled out, followed by a loud croaking sound, like a bullfrog.