by Amy Wilson
‘Do not be afraid,’ the lady said then with a sudden, bright smile that made the girl’s head swim. ‘You catch me out of season, it is a hard time for me.’
‘Out of season?’
‘I am the Queen of May – I am SPRING!’ she howled, stamping a bare foot as clouds gathered in the cornflower sky. Her fists clenched at her sides, the skirt of her dress swirling out in a sudden wind. ‘You come to me when your world is stuck in the depths of bitter winter and expect to find me WELCOMING?’
‘No, I . . . Forgive me. I did not know where I was, I only sought to—’
‘To what? To torture me with reminders of a world where I am not welcome? You tread daily on the solid earth, you have no limits, no bounds, and I am here with only what I create for company, TRAPPED until my season rings once more. Does it seem fair to you? DOES it?’
Her voice rose to a screech and the creatures around them froze, their eyes fixed on the girl accusingly. ‘Fix this,’ they seemed to say. ‘You have spoiled our play with your wretched humanity.’
‘N-no, my lady, please . . .’
The girl twisted her hands and wished herself away, but it did not work; she had never been able to discover the trick of leaving these places at will. The sky darkened, and then it was as if the Queen grew bored of her temper once more. Her countenance changed entirely, and the world brightened with her.
‘Come,’ she said presently, sweeping to a bench tucked away in a bower of sweet-smelling honeysuckle. She sat and gazed about with another dazzling, intoxicating smile. ‘Come, my goblin friends, gather . . . come, human! I shall tell you tales of my season on the earth. That shall cheer us all.’
The girl never did know how long she was in that paradise; the time is ever different when one is abroad with the fay. It felt like half a lifetime, and she grew almost fond of the mischievous goblins that courted their lady and made her laugh with their spiteful little tricks. But as for the fickle Queen of May – she would be very glad if she never saw her like again.
‘Owl!’ Mallory whispers as she opens her front door. ‘What are you doing?’
It’s early morning already and I’m exhausted and disorientated. My feet found their own way here, I’m almost as surprised as she is to find myself on her doorstep.
‘Your mum is going spare! And why don’t you have a coat on? You’ve got bare arms! Out in the snow!’
She’s making my head ache with all the exclamation marks.
‘Can I come in?’
She looks towards the kitchen, where the radio is on, and puts her finger to her lips before pulling me in and hustling me up the stairs. Nice, soft carpet, nice warm house. The familiar smell of baking. Now that I’m here, I don’t know where to start – there’s so much to fill her in on, and that’s if she wants to hear it after we fell out.
‘Sorry about before,’ I mumble as we get into her room, crawling up on to her bed. Nice, clean, warm blankets, lots of pillows. Mallory has a nice room. Little cherries on the wallpaper, everything clean and white and organized in plastic files on polished shelves.
‘It’s OK,’ she says in a small voice. ‘I’m sorry, too.’ She lingers in the doorway, as if she doesn’t know whether to stay or go. She’s wearing pyjamas with cupcakes on.
‘Sure you don’t mind me coming over?’ I ask eventually through the strained silence.
‘No! I don’t know!’ she says. ‘Where’ve you been all night anyway? Everyone’s been in a panic, Owl. Are you OK? You have to tell me what’s really going on – I can’t cope with you getting all distant.’ She blinks hard. ‘Everything’s falling apart,’ she whispers. ‘Mum and Dad are having all these tense phone conversations, and you’re keeping things from me, and I know that’s up to you and you’ve got your own stuff, but it doesn’t feel . . . nothing feels the same any more!’
I pull her down next to me on the bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, watching her struggle not to cry, feeling crappy because I’ve been so absorbed in my stuff that I haven’t really thought about how everything has changed for her, not properly. ‘I’m sorry about your mum and dad. I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you—’
‘Stop!’ she says firmly, turning to face me. ‘I’ve had enough of talking about me. Tell me what’s going on with you.’
I struggle for a minute, all the events of the last couple of days piling up in my mind, confusing everything. Then I decide to start at the beginning, and go from there. Honestly, I’m not sure how much of this madness she’ll be able to take, anyway; I’ve never seen her so fragile.
‘I found my father,’ I say.
Her face lights up. ‘You did? Tell me! What’s he like?’
‘He’s a bit . . . He’s not quite the usual. I mean . . . He’s Jack Frost,’ I blurt.
She grins. ‘Ha ha, nice one. Did she really tell you, or are you just trying to distract me from all my own crap?’
‘Uh . . .’ I look down at the pale carpet, wondering what to say next. I can’t think of anything. ‘I’m not kidding, Mall . . .’
‘So your father is Jack Frost?’ She looks at me sceptically and I lift my head, trying not to react. Trying to fend off the shudder in my spine, the rush of ice behind my eyes. ‘The Jack Frost? As in . . . kids’ stories? You’re really telling me, in total seriousness, that your mum says he is your father?’
‘Yes!’ I breathe, a little flurry of ice escaping my mouth as I say it.
She flinches back, eyes wide.
‘But how is that . . .’
‘Mallory!’ Her mum’s voice, her footsteps on the stairs. ‘What’s going on? Who do you have in there?’
I huddle into the corner of the bed and pull a pillow over my face.
‘Uh, wait a minute,’ says Mallory, shaking her head. ‘I’ll get Mum to call yours, let her know you’re here.’
‘I’m not going home yet,’ I say, dreading the thought of facing Mum.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I want to know what’s going on with you before you go anywhere.’ She looks at me, cowering behind the pillow, and shakes her head again. ‘I’ll get us some tea; you must be half frozen.’
‘I am half frozen!’ I crow, bursting out into a weird, gasping laughter that tears at my throat.
‘Oh God, Owl, what am I going to do with you? Just . . . let me get the tea and then we’ll work it out.’
I love Mallory.
I close my eyes, and wake with a start when she comes back in with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of toasted bagels. I watch her clatter about for a bit and try to clear my mind of dreams. They dance before my eyes still: old men with blue eyes, snow in my face and skating on ice, frost sweeping across rooftops all at the touch of a finger, my father’s face, his expression always slightly mocking, and strange figures, leading me on to thin ice where Alberic waits for me.
‘So . . . Jack Frost,’ Mallory says eventually, sitting on the bed, her eyes flicking over me.
‘Yup.’
‘And this is what you’ve been hiding?’
I nod. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you.’
‘I suppose that’s not surprising,’ she says, grabbing a bagel and pulling her laptop over. She peers at me, frowning. ‘Not if you really believe your father is Jack Frost.’
I try to explain what he’s like as the mug of tea warms me from the inside. I’m so disorientated I do a really bad job of it. I keep stumbling over words and forgetting things and having to go back and fill bits in. To Mallory’s credit she just sits and listens, and though her eyes boggle a bit she doesn’t laugh again, or tell me I’m mad. Her tea goes cold, the bagel still in her hand, forgotten, as I try to make her understand.
‘Well?’ I ask, when I’m done telling her about him and what I’ve learned about the fay world, searching her face for clues. ‘What do you think?’
She purses her lips, looking out of the window at the frozen world, now gleaming beneath a clear sky.
‘Do you think I�
�m making it all up?’
‘No,’ she says in a subdued voice. ‘I know you were out all night, and that you arrived not looking in the slightest bit cold. And something’s been up with your body temperature, and all the sparkling. And, you know, your mum’s stories . . . and then you are called Owl.’ She peers at me, her eyes troubled. ‘Maybe we should Google Jack Frost, see if we can find out more about him.’
‘I already did. It’s just a load of rubbish.’
‘Well, I’m doing it, anyway. Maybe there’ll be something you missed that can explain it all somehow,’ she says.
I grab one of the bagels, closing my eyes while she starts tapping away. She’s humouring me, I can tell. Maybe she thinks I’m losing it and she’s playing along in case I freak out altogether. I guess I can’t really blame her.
‘Hmm, there is a load of old rubbish,’ she says after a few minutes. ‘But also some good stuff . . .’ She reads me an old poem about Jack Frost icing windows and lakes, making the world all beautiful, and then destroying a bowl of fruit and a pitcher – which sounds about right.
‘The North Wind was there too,’ I mumble, opening my eyes to see her now scrolling through images of white-haired boys who don’t look a bit like my father. ‘Did I say?’
‘Yes, of course he was,’ she says, shooting me a quizzical look. ‘Let’s focus on your dad for now though, shall we? One mythical creature at a time?’
‘’Kay.’
Mallory’s mum pops her head around the door. ‘I’ve spoken to your mum,’ she says, tucking her hair behind her ears. She looks a bit tired but apart from that she’s as pristine as ever, just like the house. I wonder what it’d be like to have a mum like that, parents like Mallory’s. ‘I told her you’re here safe . . .’
‘Thank you.’
‘She’s been very worried, Owl. She’s expecting you home before too long,’
‘OK,’ I whisper, looking down.
‘At least she knows where you are now,’ she says, looking from me to Mallory.
‘She’s being nice to me. She thinks that can make up for everything else,’ Mallory says when she’s disappeared, closing the door behind her.
‘Oh, Mall . . .’
She waves a hand and turns back to the computer, and I get it – she wants to get absorbed in something else, anything but what’s going on with her mum and dad. So we’re back into Jack Frost. There’s a Norse legend, about a frost giant, and in some cultures he’s also known as Old Man Winter. Then we look up what frost is good for. There’s not a lot of evidence it’s good for anything, actually, just lots about frost being bad for gardeners and fruit.
‘So, basically, he’s an inhuman creature who goes around killing tomatoes and causing trouble for people,’ I say, folding my arms and leaning back against the wall. ‘Sounds about right, really. He’s not terribly . . . warm.’ Mallory snorts. ‘No. But I mean, in the kind way. He’s a bit of a joker.’
‘Well, but you don’t know him yet, do you? Not just from one night . . .’ She gives me a sceptical look, then sighs and turns back to the computer. ‘Anyway, isn’t there also something about frost protecting earth from winter? I’m sure . . . I mean, everything in nature has a purpose, doesn’t it?’
She’s a bit of an environmentalist, Mallory. She can’t find anything to back it up, though.
‘What difference does it make, anyway?’ I ask in the end. ‘I mean, what kind of relationship can you have with Jack Frost? He just spends all his time running around, freezing things, not really caring about anything.’
‘Maybe that’s the point,’ she says with an impatient shrug. ‘Maybe you could make him care, Owl.’
‘And then what?’
‘I don’t know! Then you’d have a dad who cares!’ Her eyes sparkle with sudden tears.
‘Your dad cares!’
‘I know,’ she says fiercely, thrusting the computer aside and pulling a pillow on to her lap. ‘I just wish he’d come home.’
‘What’s with you and Alberic, then?’ she asks later, when we’ve reached the lemonade-and-biscuits portion of the day and I’ve been told very firmly by her mother that I can’t keep hiding here: Mum is expecting me home for tea.
‘He’s connected with, uh, with the fay world,’ I say, a little niggle of tension writhing in my belly as she frowns. ‘He’s been helping me to work it all out, and then I was following one of the fay-creatures, and he found me and insisted on coming with me.’
‘Coming with you where? What fay-creature?’ Her eyes bore into me and I shift uneasily.
‘I don’t know . . . Some kind of servant of the Court of Mother Earth – a goblin, I think. I wanted to find out why they’ve been following me.’
‘Following you? Someone’s been following you? Why didn’t you say before?’ She frowns. ‘Why are you putting all your trust in Alberic? We don’t know him, Owl! He only started at the school a week ago!’
My throat feels dry. I’ve got this wrong, somehow. I didn’t realize the Alberic thing would be such a big deal.
‘He grew up in that world and I . . . I needed to know anything he could tell me. Maybe I should have told you earlier, I just . . . I don’t know! I never meant to shut you out, Mall!’
‘Everyone does, all the same,’ she says in a stony voice. ‘Mum, Dad . . . and you.’ She looks sick, and in spite of my own anger my stomach lurches, because I know I have let her down, just when she needed me. Mallory’s not a drama queen, she doesn’t very often actually want much at all. I should have done more. Been around more for her.
‘I’m sorry . . .’
She flinches, like she’s heard it all before. ‘It’s fine. I get it. But you should go home now. This isn’t getting us anywhere, and your mum will be worrying.’ She gets up and opens the door, all flushed and bright-eyed.
‘Mallory!’
‘Really, it’s fine,’ she says. ‘I need to spend some time with Mum anyway. We’ll talk at school.’
She doesn’t look at me, and I don’t know what to say to make it better. In the end I have no choice but to leave. I stumble down the smooth, carpeted stairs, past her mother without a word, my head reeling, fingers fumbling with the door latch before finally it yields and I’m back out in the cold, wondering what I should have said, whether there was anything I could have said that would have made it all seem OK to her.
I hate falling out with Mallory. It’s all we seem to do, since I found out about Jack.
As soon as I let myself into the flat there are footsteps pounding on the wooden stairs that lead to the studio, and then Mum comes hurtling round the corner, flying into me, spattering ochre paint everywhere as she goes.
‘Owl!’
‘Mum! What is it?’
She pulls back. She looks tired and pale, even more dishevelled than usual, a grey sweater thrown on over her pyjamas, all of it sprinkled with ochre and a deep vermilion colour.
‘What is it?’ She shakes her head. ‘My girl! One day you will know what real fear is like, perhaps. And then you will know how I felt when you didn’t come home! Where were you, Owl? What were you doing?’
She’s half wild with adrenalin, not exactly angry, but pretty intense all the same.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, as she herds me into the kitchen, flicking on the lamp on the old dresser and perching up against the side, watching me. Paint drips from the brush on to the terracotta tiles but she doesn’t notice. ‘I did go to Mallory’s, honestly. But before that, I went out with . . . with a different friend . . .’
‘Who?’
‘His name’s Alberic—’
‘A boy?’ her voice raises with disbelief.
‘Yes, a boy!’ I feel a bit outraged at her reaction. I might be lying a bit but it’s pretty much the truth. And what’s so surprising about me being with a boy, anyway?
‘And who is Alberic?’ she asks, narrowing her eyes.
‘He’s new! We just met by an old tree, and talked. That’s all!’
Oh, thi
s is not going well. What a stupid thing to say. My mind is still reeling from my row with Mallory, I hardly know what’s going to come out of my mouth next.
‘Alberic,’ she murmurs. ‘There’s meaning in a name like that, bound to be.’
‘Maybe his mum just liked it,’ I retort. ‘And you’ve got paint all over the floor.’
She tuts, and shakes her head, whether at me or herself I’m not sure. I grab the kitchen roll and help her tidy it up, after which she starts pulling things out of the fridge – cheese, hummus, carrot sticks – and handing them to me. She’s made little seed biscuits, and commands me to put them on a plate while she makes miso soup in big mugs, stirring too hard while I watch, feeling a bit nervous. She’s preparing for a lecture: I can tell from the flare of her nostrils. She loves a good lecture. They usually make perfect sense, even when repeated five times over.
‘And so . . .’ she says, once we’ve sorted everything and settled at the kitchen table, taking a deep breath as she looks me up and down. ‘Owl, I cannot trust you if you lie to me like that. Did you think I would stop you?’
‘I don’t know. I just didn’t want to say anything.’ I grab a seed biscuit.
‘You’re growing up, and I’m trying to understand. But the lying, and the staying out – you’re still too young for that, Owl.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say through a spray of seeds. Wow, these biscuits are like compressed grit.
‘I know you are,’ she says in a tight voice. ‘But it isn’t . . .’ She tips her head back, drumming her fingers on the table. When she looks back at me her eyes are glittering, her jaw tense. ‘It doesn’t change anything. It’s the second time in a week. And you lied to me. You went out, and I didn’t know where you were, or when you’d be home. I didn’t know you were safe!’
