Magic City

by Paula Guran

  “Listen,” said Corrine. “You seem interesting. I’m off shift and you have a bad blind date happening. I’m about to leave by that door and go somewhere I know that has good music and way better food than this place. And it’s friendly to people like you and me. What do you say?”

  Sheila thought of her plans for the rest of the evening in a blinding flash.

  Awkward moment before she ditched Lyle.

  Awkward and angry moment on the phone while she told her mother off.

  The vague reflection of her body held in the screen of the television as she allowed herself to cry a little.

  Then she looked up at Corrine, who was pulling on a zippered hoody, and said, “I say yes.”

  “Yes?” Corrine said, smiling.

  “Yes,” said Sheila. “Yes, let’s go there, wherever it is you’re going.”

  Corrine held her hand out, and Sheila looked down at her own hands again, clamped together as if in prayer, holding each other back from the world. “You can let one of them go,” Corrine said, grinning. “Otherwise, I can’t take you with me.”

  Sheila laughed nervously and nodded. She released her hands from one another and cautiously put one into the palm of Corrine’s hand, where it settled in smoothly and turned warm in an instant. “This way,” Corrine said, and put her other hand on the bathroom doorknob, twisted, then opened it.

  For a moment, Sheila could see nothing but a bright light fill the space of the doorway—no Lyle or the sounds of rock and roll music spilled in from the dining area—and she worried that she’d made a mistake, not being able to see where she was going with this woman who was a complete stranger. Then Corrine looked back at her and said, “Don’t be afraid,” and Sheila heard the sound of jazz music suddenly float toward her, a soft saxophone, a piano melody, though the doorway was still filled with white light she couldn’t see through.

  “I’m not,” said Sheila suddenly, and was surprised to realize that she truly wasn’t.

  Corrine winked at her the way she had done at the table, as if they shared a secret, which, of course, they did. Then she tugged on Sheila’s hand and they stepped through the white light into somewhere different.

  Christopher Barzak is the author of the Crawford Award-winning novel, One for Sorrow, which has been made into the Sundance feature film Jamie Marks Is Dead. His second novel, The Love We Share Without Knowing, was a finalist for the Nebula and Tiptree Awards. He is also the author of two collections: Birds and Birthdays, a collection of surrealist fantasy stories, and Before and Afterlives, a collection of supernatural fantasies. He grew up in rural Ohio, has lived in a Southern California beach town, the capital of Michigan, and has taught English outside of Tokyo, Japan, where he lived for two years. His next novel, Wonders of the Invisible World, will be published by Knopf in 2015. Currently he teaches fiction writing in the Northeast Ohio MFA program at Youngstown State University.

  The City: New York (Manhattan, to be more exact).

  The Magic: Think you know about fairies? A teenager discovers a lot of the stuff you read is helpful, but when you encounter fairies in the heart of the city—you learn a great deal more.

  GRAND CENTRAL PARK

  Delia Sherman

  When I was little, I used to wonder why the sidewalk trees had iron fences around them. Even a city kid could see they were pretty weedy looking trees. I wondered what they’d done to be caged up like that, and whether it might be dangerous to get too close to them.

  So I was pretty little, okay? Second grade, maybe. It was one of the things my best friend and I used to talk about, like why it’s so hard to find a particular city on a map when you don’t already know where it is, and why the fourth graders thought Mrs. Lustenburger’s name was so hysterically funny.

  My best friend’s name was (is) Galadriel, which isn’t even remotely her fault, and only her mother calls her that anyway. Everyone else calls her Elf.

  Anyway. Trees. New York. Have I said I live in New York? I do. In Manhattan, on the West Side, a couple blocks from Central Park.

  I’ve always loved Central Park. I mean, it’s the closest to nature I’m likely to get, growing up in Manhattan. It’s the closest to nature I want to get, if you must know. There’s wild things in it—squirrels and pigeons and like that, and trees and rocks and plants. But they’re city wild things, used to living around people. I don’t mean they’re tame. I mean they’re streetwise. Look. How many squished squirrels do you see on the park transverses? How many do you see on any suburban road? I rest my case.

  Central Park is magic. This isn’t a matter of opinion, it’s the truth. When I was just old enough for Mom to let me out of her sight, I had this place I used to play, down by the boat pond, in a little inlet at the foot of a huge cliff. When I was in there, all I could see was the water all shiny and sparkly like a silk dress with sequins and the great gray hulk of the rock behind me and the willow tree bending down over me to trail its green-gold hair in the water. I could hear people splashing and laughing and talking, but I couldn’t see them, and there was this fairy who used to come and play with me.

  Mom said my fairy friend came from me being an only child and reading too many books, but all I can say is that if I’d made her up, she would have been less bratty. She had long Saran-Wrap wings like a dragonfly, she was teensy, and she couldn’t keep still for a second. She’d play princesses or Peter Pan for about two minutes, and then she’d get bored and pull my hair or start teasing me about being a big, galumphy, deaf, blind human being or talking to the willow or the rocks. She couldn’t even finish a conversation with a butterfly.

  Anyway, I stopped believing in her when I was about eight, or stopped seeing her, anyway. By that time I didn’t care because I’d gotten friendly with Elf, who didn’t tease me quite as much. She wasn’t into fairies, although she did like to read. As we got older, mostly I was grateful she was willing to be my friend. Like, I wasn’t exactly Ms. Popularity at school. I sucked at gym and liked English and like that, so the cool kids decided I was a super-geek. Also, I wear glasses and I’m no Kate Moss, if you know what I mean. I could stand to lose a few pounds—none of your business how many. It wasn’t safe to be seen having lunch with me, so Elf didn’t. As long as she hung with me after school, I didn’t really care all that much.

  The inlet was our safe place, where we could talk about whether the French teacher hated me personally or was just incredibly mean in general and whether Patty Gregg was really cool, or just thought she was. In the summer, we’d take our shoes off and swing our feet in the water that sighed around the roots of the golden willow.

  So one day we were down there, gabbing as usual. This was last year, the fall of eleventh grade, and we were talking about boyfriends. Or at least Elf was talking about her boyfriend and I was nodding sympathetically. I guess my attention wandered, and for some reason I started wondering about my fairy friend. What was her name again? Bubble? Burble? Something like that.

  Something tugged really hard on about two hairs at the top of my head, where it really hurts, and I yelped and scrubbed at the sore place. “Mosquito,” I explained. “So what did he say?”

  Oddly enough, Elf had lost interest in what her boyfriend had said. She had this look of intense concentration on her face, like she was listening for her little brother’s breathing on the other side of the bedroom door. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

  “What? Hear what?”

  “Ssh.”

  I sshed and listened. Water lapping; the distant creak of oarlocks and New Yorkers laughing and talking and splashing. The wind in the willow leaves whispering, ssh, ssh. “I don’t hear anything,” I said.

  “Shut up,” Elf snapped. “You missed it. A snapping sound. Over there.” Her blue eyes were very big and round.

  “You’re trying to scare me,” I accused her. “You read about that woman getting mugged in the park, and now you’re trying to jerk my chain. Thanks, friend.”

  Elf looked indignant. “As
if!” She froze like a dog sighting a pigeon. “There.”

  I strained my ears. It seemed awfully quiet all of a sudden.

  There wasn’t even a breeze to stir the willow. Elf breathed, “Omigod. Don’t look now, but I think there’s a guy over there, watching us.”

  My face got all prickly and cold, like my body believed her even though my brain didn’t. “I swear to God, Elf, if you’re lying, I’ll totally kill you.” I turned around to follow her gaze. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

  “I said, don’t look,” Elf hissed. “He’ll know.”

  “He already knows, unless he’s a moron. If he’s even there. Omigod!”

  Suddenly I saw, or thought I saw, a guy with a stocking cap on and a dirty, unshaven face peering around a big rock.

  It was strange. One second, it looked like a guy, the next, it was more like someone’s windbreaker draped over a bush. But my heart started to beat really fast anyway. There weren’t that many ways to get out of that particular little cove if you didn’t have a boat.

  “See him?” she hissed triumphantly.

  “I guess.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Thinking about it later, I couldn’t quite decide whether Elf was really afraid, or whether she was pretending because it was exciting to be afraid, but she sure convinced me. If the guy was on the path, the only way out was up the cliff. I’m not in the best shape and I’m scared of heights, but I was even more scared of the man, so up we went.

  I remember that climb, but I don’t want to talk about it. I thought I was going to die, okay? And I was really, really mad at Elf for putting me though this, like if she hadn’t noticed the guy, he wouldn’t have been there. I was sweating, and my glasses kept slipping down my nose and . . .

  No. I won’t talk about it. All you need to know is that Elf got to the top first and squirmed around on her belly to reach down and help me up.

  “Hurry up,” she panted. “He’s behind you. No, don’t look”—as if I could even bear to look all that way down—“just hurry.”

  I was totally winded by the time I got to the top and scrambled to my feet, but Elf didn’t give me time to catch my breath. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the path, both of us stumbling as much as we were running.

  It was about this time I realized that something really weird was going on. Like, the path was empty, and it was two o’clock in the afternoon of a beautiful fall Saturday, when Central Park is so full of people it’s like Times Square with trees. And I couldn’t run just like you can’t run in dreams.

  Suddenly, Elf tripped and let go of me. The path shook itself, and she was gone. Poof. Nowhere in sight.

  By this time, I’m freaked totally out of my mind. I look around, and there’s this guy, hauling himself over the edge of the cliff, stocking cap jammed down over his head, face gray-skinned with dirt, half his teeth missing. I don’t know why I didn’t scream—usually, it’s pitiful how easy it is to make me scream—I just turned around and ran.

  Now, remember that there’s about fifty million people in the park that day. You’d think I would run into one or two, which would mean safety because muggers don’t like witnesses. But no.

  So I’m running and he’s running, and I can hear him breathing but I can’t hear his footsteps, and we’ve been running, like, forever, and I don’t know where the hell I am, which means I must be in the Ramble, which isn’t that near the Boat Pond, but hey, I’m running for my life. And I think he’s getting closer and I really want to look, just stop and let him catch me and get it all over with, but I keep running anyway, and suddenly I remember what my fairy’s name was (is) and I shriek out, “Bugle! Help me!”

  I bet you thought something would happen.

  So did I, and when it didn’t, I started to cry. Gulping for breath, my glasses all runny with tears, I staggered up a little rise, and I’m in a clear spot with a bench in it and trees all around and a low stone wall in front of another granite cliff, this one going straight down, like, a mile or two.

  The guy laughs, low and deep in his throat, and I don’t know why because I don’t really want to, but I turn around and face him.

  So this is when it gets really weird. Because he’s got a snout and really sharp teeth hanging out, and his stocking cap’s fallen off, and he has ears—gray, leathery ones—and his skin isn’t dirty, it’s gray, like concrete, and he’s impossible, but he’s real—a real, like, rat-guy. I give this little urk and he opens his jaws, and things get sparkly around the edges.

  “Gnaw-bone!” someone says. “Chill!”

  I jump and look around everywhere, and there’s this amazing girl standing right beside the rat-guy, who has folded up like a Slinky and is making pitiful noises over her boots. The boots are green, and so is her velvet mini and her Lycra top and her fitted leather jacket—all different shades of green, mostly olive and evergreen and moss and like that: dark greens. Browny, earthy greens. So’s her hair—browny-green, in long, wild dreads around her shoulders and down her back. And her skin, but that’s more brown than green.

  She’s beautiful, but not like a celebrity or a model or anything. She’s way more gorgeous than that. Next to her, Taylor Swift is a complete dog.

  “What’s up?” she asks the rat-guy. Her voice is incredible, too. I mean, she talks like some wise-ass street kid, but there’s leaves under it somehow. Sounds dumb, but that’s what it was like.

  “Games is up,” he says, sounding just as ratty as he looks.

  “Fun-fun. She saw me. She’s mine.”

  “I hear you,” the green girl says thoughtfully. “The thing is, she knows Bugle’s name.”

  I manage to make a noise. It’s not like I haven’t wanted to contribute to the conversation. But I’m kind of out of breath from all that running, not to mention being totally hysterical.

  I’m not sure what old Gnaw-bone’s idea of fun and games is, but I’m dead sure I don’t want to play. If knowing Bugle’s name can get me out of this, I better make the most of it. So, “Yeah,” I croak. “Bugle and me go way back.”

  The green girl turns to look at me, and I kind of wish I’d kept quiet. She’s way scary. It’s not the green hair or the punk clothes or the fact that I’ve just noticed there’s this humongous squirrel sitting on her shoulder and an English sparrow perched in her dreads. It’s the way she looks at me, like I’m a Saint Bernard that just recited the Pledge of Allegiance or something.

  “I think we better hear Bugle’s take on this beautiful friendship,” she says. “Bugle says you’re buds, fine. She doesn’t, Gnaw-bone gets his fun and games. Fair?”

  No, it’s not fair, but I don’t say so. There’s a long silence, in which I can hear the noise of traffic, very faint and far away, and the panicked beating of my heart, right in my throat.

  Gnaw-bone licks his lips, what there is of them, and the squirrel slithers down the green girl’s shoulder and gets comfortable in her arms. If it’s even a squirrel. I’ve seen smaller dogs.

  Have I mentioned I’m really scared? I’ve never been this scared before in my entire life. And it’s not even that I’m afraid of what Gnaw-bone might do to me, although I am.

  I’m afraid of the green girl. It’s one thing to think fairies are wicked cool, to own all of Brian Froud’s Faerie books and see Fairy Tale three times and secretly wish you hadn’t outgrown your fairy friend. But this girl doesn’t look like any fairy I ever imagined. Green leather and dreads—get real! And I’m not really prepared for eyes like living moss and the squirrel curled like a cat in her arms and the sparrow in her hair like a bizzarroid hair clip. It’s way too weird. I want to run away. I want to cry. But neither of these things seems like the right I thing to do, so I stand there with my legs all rubbery and wait for Bugle to show up.

  After a while, I feel something tugging at my hair. I start to slap it away, and then I realize. Duh. It’s Bugle, saying hi. I scratch my ear instead. There’s a little tootling sound, like a trumpet: Bugle, laughin
g. I laugh too, kind of hysterically.

  “See?” I tell the green girl and the humongous squirrel and Gnaw-bone. “She knows me.”

  The green girl holds out her hand—the squirrel scrambles up to her shoulder again—and Bugle flies over and stands on her palm. It seems to me that Bugle used to look more like a little girl and less like a teenager. But then, so did I.

  The green girl ignores me. “Do you know this mortal?” she asks Bugle. Her voice is different, somehow: less street kid, more like Mom asking whether I’ve done my math homework. Bugle gives a little hop. “Yep. Sure do. When she was little, anyways. Now, she doesn’t want to know me.”

  I’ve been starting to feel better, but now the green girl is glaring at me, and my stomach knots up tight. I give this sick kind of grin grin. It’s true. I hadn’t wanted to know her, not with Peggy and those guys on my case. Even Elf, who puts up with a lot, doesn’t want to hear about how I saw fairies when I was little. I say, “Yeah, well. I’m sorry. I really did know you were real, but I was embarrassed.”

  The green girl smiles. I can’t help noticing she has a beautiful smile, like sun on the boat pond. “Fatso is just saying that,” she points out, “because she’s afraid I’ll throw her to Gnaw-bone.”

  I freeze solid. Bugle, who’s been getting fidgety, takes off and flies around the clearing a couple of times. Then she buzzes me and pulls my hair again, lands on my shoulder and says, “She’s not so bad. I like teasing her.”

  “Not fair!” Gnaw-bone squeaks.

  The green girl shrugs. “You know the rules,” she tells him. “Bugle speaks for her. She’s off-limits. Them’s the breaks. Now, scram. You bother me.”

  Exit Gnaw-bone, muttering and glaring at me over his shoulder, and am I ever glad to see him go. He’s like every nightmare Mom has ever had about letting me go places by myself and having me turn up murdered. Mine, too.

  Anyway, I’m so relieved I start to babble. “Thanks, Bugle. Thanks a billion. I owe you big time.”