The Modern Fae's Guide to Surviving Humanity

by Joshua Palmatier

  “What?”

  “Queen Corrigan. The queen of the Fae. Who did you think she was?”

  Suddenly tired of whatever game Bridget was playing, Marisol snapped, “My nurse, maybe? First you put I-don’t-know-what in my eye, and now you tell me that my nurse is queen of the fairies? Somehow I missed seeing her wings. Perhaps they’re in the same make-believe place as my dead son!”

  “But that’s just it. Maybe your son isn’t dead.”

  “I saw him.” Marisol slumped back against her pillows.

  “You saw what she willed you to see, what you expected to see. But then with the ointment in your eye you saw the reality. She needs you to give her your breast milk, Mari, your colostrum! The only reason for that is because she has a newborn to feed.”

  “Why are you saying this—do you like watching me suffer?”

  Bridget took Marisol’s cold hands and pressed them together between her own warm palms. “Mari—the last thing I want is to hurt you more. But even more to the point, what do I have to gain by lying and what do you have to lose by believing me?”

  By the time her doctor gave her a list of the symptoms of postpartum depression and a referral to a psychiatrist who specialized in grief counseling, Rafael had still not arrived to take her home. Marisol left a message on his cell phone, but realized she wouldn’t be at all surprised if she got home and found that he’d moved out. Things between them had been shaky before she got pregnant, and she suspected he’d been making things work for the sake of the baby. Fine. Losing Raffe is the least of my problems. In fact, if he’s still there, maybe it’s time to ask him to leave. She sat down on the park bench where Bridget had asked her to wait.

  “You’ll have to be invited in—we’d never get inside on our own.”

  “And she lives in the Friends’ cemetery? I thought no one could get in there.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Because Quakers don’t believe in fairies?”

  Bridget had grinned at that. “No, silly. Because the Good Neighbors—the Friends—are pulling this off right under everyone’s nose.” She seemed inclined to go on, but Marisol just shrugged, having lost whatever taste she had originally had for this adventure. She hurt, and felt physically numb with grief and opiates and a lack of sleep.

  “I’m so tired, Bridget. I think I just want to go home.”

  Bridget shook her head. “I know. But this is important. Possibly the most important thing you’ll ever do.”

  “I should have let them do the C-section. I should have listened to you.”

  “Sweetie, if I could do this for you, I would. But I only have one eye left.”

  “You said she owed you an eye. Explain.”

  Bridget sighed. “When I understood what I was seeing out of my right eye, I didn’t put the ointment in the baby’s eyes. Instead, I baptized her. I got the girl and her baby out safely, but Queen Corrigan caught me at the door. She couldn’t stop me from leaving: midwives apparently have some kind of diplomatic immunity—like ambassadors or messengers because we travel between worlds. But Corrigan cursed me to never look upon anything with my lying eye again or something like that. On the way out, a piece of ivy fell across the doorway and scratched my face. By the time I got home, my right eye was red. By the next day it was infected. I lost the eye the next week and nearly died from sepsis.”

  “Bridget, this sounds crazy. You know that, right?”

  “Just go to her. See if it’s Tomás.”

  “And steal him back?”

  Bridget nodded. “Once you have him in your arms, she may ask you to give him to her, but don’t—no matter how logical her requests, no matter how clearly she makes you believe it’s the right thing to do. Once she’s been confronted, she cannot take what is not given freely.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I developed an interest in learning how their world works.” Bridget grinned crookedly. “It’s amazing what even a one-eyed woman can learn if she’s got an Internet connection and a good relationship with a librarian.” More somberly, Bridget added, “Just remember—don’t eat or drink anything; and once you have him, don’t let him go no matter what. Hold fast.”

  Marisol shrugged. “This is crazy, you know.”

  “You’ve got a knife, and oh—” Bridget filled a clean baby food jar with water from the drinking fountain.

  Marisol took it reluctantly. “I’m not religious. Or at least I wasn’t. I’m having a hard enough time thinking of her as a fairy. Does this mean that crosses really do keep vampires away?” She laughed self-consciously and then sobered quickly, saying, “Please tell me that vampires aren’t real.”

  “I have no idea about the vampires. But claiming a child has less to do with Christianity than with baptism being a formal human ceremony. We could just as easily perform a bris or a Namakarana naming ceremony. Any ritual that claims him for the human world would work. It just so happens that a Christian baptism is remarkably easy and quick. Painless, too, since I assume you don’t want to try performing an emergency bris—not that I’d recommend it even if you do.”

  “This is really weird, Bridget. You know that, right?”

  “The world is a strange and wondrous place, Mari. It’s what makes it so interesting.” She rubbed her eyes under her glasses. “And so dangerous.”

  Marisol sat on a bench the nurse would have to walk past if she cut through the park to the cemetery. The Friends’ Cemetery was one of the oddities that made Brooklyn such an interesting city—she knew the urban legends surrounding the iron-fenced burial ground: it was closed off in the 1950s to keep Montgomery Clift’s fans from sleeping on his grave, or maybe from digging it up. She’d also heard that people performed satanic rituals there. In high school, everyone had dared each other to spend the night inside the gates, but no one had ever done it as far as she knew. Of course, no one she knew had ever claimed it was a fairy haunt, either.

  This part of the park was peaceful, the tall old maples kept the sun away from her face without affecting the warmth of the day. It was easy to act exhausted, because she was. Tired like she could sleep for days without coming up for air. She put her head down in her hands and wasn’t surprised when, a few minutes later, a cool hand fell on her shoulder.

  “I thought that was you, dear. Are you all right? I hate that the insurance companies make us discharge you so soon after a labor like that. Do you live nearby?”

  Marisol made herself look mildly surprised. “Oh, it’s you. No, I’m okay. Well, not okay. But. You know.”

  Corey pursed her lips and looked off over Marisol’s shoulder. Seeming to come to a decision she said, “I live just around the corner; would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “I should warn you, dear, I have a new baby of my own.”

  Marisol’s heart lurched, but she forced herself to say nonchalantly, “This is Park Slope. More babies than adults.”

  “It does seem that way sometimes. Not at all like the old days when they were harder to come by.”

  Corey led the way through an ornamental gate toward an old mansion surrounded by beautiful houses on either side—not the kind of house Marisol imagined a nurse could afford. Not unless her husband was a hedge fund manager. Marisol wondered why she had never seen this block before; she had lived near Prospect Park for years and thought she knew every inch of it.

  Then remembering, she squinted her right eye. The front of the house was nothing but a swath of greenery, hanging low over an opening cut into the side of a low hill. She noticed that the iron fence surrounding the cemetery stood ajar, and wondered if the padlocked gate she remembered from her childhood was another illusion. There were no houses anywhere nearby. She blinked again, and once more saw a mansion superimposed into a row of equally grand houses.

  Feeling dizzy, she put out a hand and felt the hard edges of the entryway, though she could also feel the cool leafiness of ivy beneath her hand. She cl
osed her eyes and the damp leaves melted away, leaving only the solidity of planed wood beneath her hands. This was more confusing than she’d anticipated. It was hard to separate reality from fantasy, and she had a bad moment when she wondered if she was dreaming this whole encounter. Then her breasts throbbed, aching with unused milk. Her head cleared.

  “Is everything all right, dear?”

  “Sure, Miss Gann.”

  “Oh just call me Corey.” She held aside a fall of ivy—though Marisol’s mind insisted that she stood in a doorway, holding open a tall wooden door. It took all of Marisol’s courage to enter, but she smiled and let Corey lead her into this pit in the ground.

  Following Bridget’s instructions, Marisol set down her purse as soon as they got in the house and took the opportunity to push the tiny penknife from her keychain into the loose soil at the entryway. There was no door to hold open here, not in the reality that the ointment showed Marisol, but Bridget believed it was important, and she hadn’t been wrong yet.

  The house was grand in an old-money kind of way that Marisol recognized from memories of her grandfather’s house in Oaxaca. Antique wooden furniture, glossy and stained dark from generations of polishing. An oddly shaped skull, tiny enough to be from some kind of shrew or vole and decorated with brightly colored beads, lay atop a book. A forest landscape hung on one wall, painted so realistically that Marisol felt she could fall into it and lose herself. A portrait, which resembled Corey, faced the room from over the fireplace. But the subject’s features were harder, sharper around the edges, somehow, than the nurse’s. Perhaps it was her mother, or another relative—older, angrier.

  Marisol realized that Corey was staring at her as intently as she stared at the portrait. “You have a beautiful house,” she ventured, and Corey turned, flashing a smile.

  “Please make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a moment with our tea.”

  Marisol looked around the room, smiling wistfully. It really was like being back in her grandfather’s hacienda, down to the old colonial-era furniture. There was even a fringe of colorful papel picado panels along the top edge of the far wall. Her grandfather used to leave them up for weeks after a party. Heavy cushions slumped invitingly on low couches. She could almost smell the spiced chocolate that her abuelita used to serve in little china cups. Sure enough—on a nearby sideboard she saw a chocolate set, complete with a molinillo—the wooden whisk shaped like a baby’s rattle.

  Marisol shivered. For the first time, she truly acknowledged the possibility that she wasn’t merely humoring her midwife’s slightly nutty whim. Corey Gann is showing me what I want to see. This would look different to everyone who comes here. And if she can do this, then Bridget might be telling the literal truth. What if Tomás is here? What if he’s still alive? Her heart hurt. She didn’t think she could stand the disappointment if he wasn’t.

  While she waited for Corey to return, she closed her left eye and watched the room grow dim. There was barely enough light coming through the screen of old ivy to illuminate the interior of the cave. She walked to one of the walls and put out a hand. Dry, coarse soil brushed her fingertips, and the tiny hairs of rootlets from trees she knew had to be overhead. Not a cave, but a dugout. A barrow. She peered into the dark corridor where Corey had disappeared and was not surprised to see a glow like candlelight surrounding the woman as she returned, a short, uniformed woman walking behind her, cradling a bundled infant in her arms.

  “We have tea, or Mrs. Brown would be happy to bring you hot chocolate if you would prefer.”

  The short, stout woman brought the baby closer and Marisol smelled something green and fresh, like cut grass. Marisol shook her head. “I’m not all that thirsty, actually.”

  “You look pale, dear. Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, thank you.” Marisol braced herself and asked, “May I hold your son?”

  Corey eyed her, not quite suspiciously. “Are you sure you want to? It’s likely to start your milk flowing.”

  “That’s all right.” Bridget had been right. Corey wasn’t about to hand the child over easily. Marisol took a deep breath and played the one card she knew Corey couldn’t resist. “I should get used to it, if I’m going to donate. You were right, I shouldn’t be selfish. That’s not how I would have raised Tomás. Where do I go to sign up—or should I just pump at home?”

  Corey looked eager and excited. She nodded to Mrs. Brown, who immediately handed the baby to Marisol. “Honestly, I feel bad asking for myself, but rather than donating to a bank, would you consider feeding my son? He really doesn’t seem to like formula at all, and I’m not able to nurse him. Besides, breastmilk is best. I’d be willing to pay you for your time, of course. You can pump at home or feed him here if you’d prefer. And if you need a place to stay—I couldn’t help but notice that there seemed to be some tension between you and your husband … ?”

  She was waiting for an answer, but Marisol couldn’t look away from the unbelievably beautiful baby in her arms. He had red hair, a brighter version of Corey’s deep auburn, and bright blue eyes. It’s not Tomás. Of course it’s not. Marisol rocked him carefully, looking between his face and Corey’s. He was warm. So alive in her arms that she ached to keep him, no matter who he belonged to. “He looks like you,” she admitted finally.

  Corey’s smile was radiant. “I think so, too.”

  With her eyes closed, Marisol took a deep breath and held it, then cracked open her right eyelid. She didn’t know if she expected his features to remain the same or not. But when she saw him through the film of ointment, she had to stifle a gasp. The baby in her arms didn’t have red hair, nor did he have the perfectly imagined features she’d seen on the changeling in the hospital.

  But he was hers. Undoubtedly hers. Black wisps of hair curled damply around his face. Delicate lips, red as a rosebud. Black eyes—no newborn blue here. A strong Aztec nose, just like Raffe’s, only tiny and snubbed and perfect. He rooted frantically at her blouse, as if he knew her, knew that she had what he needed.

  Mrs. Brown was still a turtled old woman who smelled of cut grass and oregano, but her white uniform had given way to a raggedy dress of leaves and feathers and bits of fur. She grinned sideways as Marisol examined her, then her black eyes widened as she realized Marisol could actually see her. She nodded an infinitesimal nod, and Marisol interpreted that as encouragement. Taking a deep breath, she addressed Corey again. “Actually, he doesn’t look anything like you, does he?” She took a step back, away from her hostess. Anger fueled her demand: “Did you really think I’d let you keep him? You didn’t even try to make that changeling believable—a bundle of sticks and a brown paper sack? Is that all you thought my grief was worth?”

  Corrigan drew back at the force of Marisol’s words, but Marisol knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun her. She was only a few hours out of the hospital and even just standing here, her belly ached, her breasts had begun to leak, and she felt more than a little shaky from exhaustion as well as adrenaline.

  Corrigan’s eyes narrowed as she forced a smile. “I keep telling the doctors that putting new mothers on morphine is a bad idea. Someone’s going to have a bad reaction one of these days, but does anyone listen to me?”

  “No one is listening now, Queen Corrigan.” As Marisol spoke, Corey’s face eased into its actual lines: much starker, much more beautiful, and much more frightening than she had been before. Now Marisol recognized the woman in the portrait.

  “If you won’t listen, then what will you do, little girl? Will you run? I can shut my doors against you and you will never find your way out.”

  “Your door is warded with iron.” Corrigan’s head snapped around and the smile slid from her face, replaced by something darker. Marisol swallowed and said firmly, “So you can’t seal me in. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything, nor has my son, or else you wouldn’t have needed me so badly.”

  Corrigan’s smile grew tighter. “And who will help you? You are a grieving woman whose
postpartum depression has sadly morphed into psychosis.” Her eyes widened and her mouth thinned as she promised, “I will make your stay at Kingsboro Psych a torment such as bards could write sagas about.”

  Marisol could almost smell the industrial disinfectant, see the fluorescent lighting, feel the helpless terror of that future, but she said as calmly as she could, “You have no power over us, unless I give it to you.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Instead of answering, Marisol groped for the baby food jar in her jacket pocket and opened it, unceremoniously dumping its contents over her son’s head. Tomás squared his mouth in an outraged wail. She spoke loudly enough to be heard over his screams. “I baptize you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.” Her words crackled in the air, and Mrs. Brown began edging back toward the dark corridor.

  Corrigan narrowed her eyes and took a single step toward Marisol and Tomás. “We could help each other, you know. I am a wealthy woman and you have nothing—not even a husband anymore. I could ease your way considerably in this world, if you were to help me.”

  “By giving you my child?”

  “You can have others. I cannot. Let me adopt him, and you never need work another day in your life.”

  Marisol felt her lips lifting back from her teeth in a snarl. “I may be poor, but I would never sell my baby.”

  “But what does he have to look forward to with you? Your world is a dark and dismal place. And your man was easy to chase away, you know. He won’t be back. This child will always know something is missing from his life—you won’t be enough to fill it. Let him stay with me and he will be honored and cared for and beloved by all of my people. It is no small thing to be the son of a queen.”

  Marisol’s breath caught in her throat—who would not want the life of a prince for their child? What kind of a mother was she? Bridget had warned her that Corey would try to talk her into giving him up, but this was more difficult than merely refusing to give up her son; if she took him, she would be taking opportunities away from him. Then she breathed in the fragrance from the top of his head. He smelled warm and human and whatever else she worried about, he was hers. He belonged with her. “I will not.”