Welcome to Bordertown

by Holly Black

  It’s noon. The sun’s high, beating down on the desert. It’s got to be 110 out here on the pavement. The road stretches as far as I can see in either direction. There’s only scrub and cacti.

  The guard spits on the ground as the gate closes.

  I start walking. I’ve got two choices: the city or the mountains. The city’s what got me in trouble the last time, so I walk northeast to where the Hierro Maderas rise tall and graying in the distance.

  My baseball cap helps against the sun, but there’s only so much it can do. I can feel the moisture leaving my body. A couple of hours of this and I’ll be as parched as the dirt on either side of the blacktop.

  When I hear the pickup slowing down behind me, I don’t turn around. I just keep walking. Being around people’s another thing that got me in trouble. I either buy into their crap—which is how I found myself in Kikimi—or I end up taking a swing at them. I don’t seem to have a whole lot of middle ground, but I’m working on it.

  The pickup pulls up beside me and a familiar voice says, “You want a ride?”

  I sigh. When the truck stops, I pop the passenger door and get in. I look at my aunt. She looks back at me, those dark brown eyes seeing everything. Her skin’s brown but still smooth. Her black hair’s tied back in a braid. She’s wearing jeans and a man’s flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Hey, Tía,” I say as she puts the pickup in gear and pulls away. “What brings you out here?”

  Like I don’t already know.

  “I was interested in seeing which direction you’d choose.”

  “I’m guessing since you stopped, I got that part right.”

  Her lip twitches, which is about as much of a smile as I’ve ever gotten out of her. She pulls a pack of smokes out of her pocket and tosses them onto my lap. I take one out and light it with one of the matches stuck into the empty half of the pack. When I offer it to her, she shakes her head. I close up the pack and put it on the console between the bucket seats.

  “So now let’s see how you do with the second part,” she says. “I’ve got a ticket to Baltimore. If you’re interested, Herbert’s got a job for you there and you can stay with him.”

  What she doesn’t say is I’m turning eighteen next month. The next time I get busted, I won’t be going into juvie. Instead I’ll be going into the adult prison system, which for my people is pretty much the biggest rez in the country.

  “What’s the job?” I ask.

  “Well, you won’t be stealing cars.”

  I nod. “I’d like that.”

  “If you screw this up …”

  “I won’t,” I tell her.

  I probably will. So far it’s been the story of my life. I can see in her eyes she’s thinking the same thing. But I’m willing to give it a try and she sees that, too.

  Her lip twitches again.

  “We’ll make a man out of you yet,” she says.

  It’s a ways to the rez. I reach over and turn on the radio, moving through the bands till I get the tribal station. Her lip twitches a third time. She must be in a really good mood.

  * * *

  Uncle Herbert lives like he’s still in the shadows of the Hierro Maderas. He’s got a basement apartment that smells of piñon, sweetgrass, and cedar. He’s eating Indian tacos and beans and flatbread that I have to admit taste as good as anything I ever had back home. And he still makes his coffee the way we do on the rez, water and coffee all mixed up in the same pot. Doesn’t matter how well you strain it, you’re still picking grounds from between your teeth, but seriously? I can’t think of a better way to start the day.

  He was a medicine man back on the rez, but he left when the war of words between the traditionalists and the casino crowd got too heated.

  “If we were supposed to fight over possessions like white men,” he told me, “the Creator would have made us white men.”

  Except now he lives here in Baltimore and works as a foreman for a company that provides the setup gear for conventions and shows. Go figure. I feel like telling him he’s living like the casino crowd except he’s poorer, but keeping my mouth shut’s been working pretty good these days, so I keep it to myself.

  The work’s easy. It’s hard, sweaty work, but you don’t have to think—that’s the easy part. We just follow the floor plan that the organizers give us. We haul in all the tables, chairs, and podiums, set up the bare bones of the booths, build stages—whatever they need.

  Uncle Herbert’s got a solid team. They’re mostly Mexican and black. They aren’t afraid to work and they love Uncle Herbert to a man. It was like that back on the rez, too, which is why he left. People were ready to go to war if he just said the word. He knew if he stayed any longer, he’d end up doing that and he didn’t want anybody’s blood on his hands.

  “Do you miss it?” I asked as we drove home from a job one night.

  He’s got this old Ford pickup that’s held together with rust and body filler, but it runs like a charm. Me, I’m still saving for a ride.

  “I miss the quiet,” he said, then looked at me and grinned. “And I miss living on Indian time.”

  Having spent the eight months before I came up here following an institutional schedule, I’m used to getting up early and being on time. But I gave him a smile and nodded.

  “I hear you,” I said.

  Uncle Herbert goes to bed early—pretty much after dinner. I’d maybe get bored, but I fill my time. I’m trying to teach myself wood carving. I don’t have any tools except my jackknife, but wood’s cheap and I’ve got all the time in the world to learn. Uncle Herbert doesn’t have a TV, just an old radio that someone left on the curb. He tinkered with it until he got it working again, so I listen to Public Radio while I work on my carvings. Little bears and lizards and birds like Hopi fetishes except they’re made of wood. Sometimes I go to the corner bar and nurse a couple of ginger ales while I watch a game on their big screen.

  * * *

  We get all kinds of gigs, but the ones that give me the biggest kick are where the people all play dress-up. Since I got here, we’ve done two sci-fi conventions. The setup’s no different than it is for any other kind of convention, but if you hang around the back halls of the hotel, you can watch them walking around like spacemen and barbarians and everything in between.

  Seeing grown men and women dressed up like their favorite characters just puts a smile on my face. It reminds me of the powwows, where everybody trades in their jeans and Ts for ribbon shirts and jingle dresses. For a couple of days they get to step out of their lives and be the people they wish they were.

  But the sci-fi conventions have nothing on our current job. At this FaerieCon pretty much everybody’s in costume, from the organizers to the people working the tables in the dealers’ room. Some of the guys working the faerie theme look like walking shrubs, in cloaks with leaves sewn all over their shirts and pants, and masks that look like they’re made of leaves and tree bark. There are a lot more girls, too—pretty girls with sparkles in their hair and faerie wings on their backs.

  “Man,” Luther says, “I’d like me a piece of that.”

  He’s checking out an Asian girl wearing leather with lots of buckles, high boots, and a short skirt. Her top hat’s got brass buttons all over it and what looks like a weird pair of binoculars resting on the brim. And of course she’s got wings.

  I nod like I do when anybody says something to me. I find when you do, people pick the response they want, so you don’t have to actually say anything.

  “She looks good,” Luther says, “and she knows it. Wonder what she wears when she’s not playing dress-up?”

  I shrug.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Doesn’t make much difference. Girl like that, she doesn’t even see a guy like you or me. But she sure is hot.”

  I go get another table from the dolly.

  * * *

  I’m outside on a smoke break later when I see one of those guys wearing a costume all made of leaves. I quit smoking sin
ce I moved to Baltimore, but I’ll take the break. This guy’s pretty old—in his fifties, I’d guess—and not in the best of shape. I watch him for a moment as he wrestles with some big box in the back of his van, so I go over and ask him if he wants a hand.

  “Hey, thanks,” he says as I take one end of the box.

  We put it on his dolly and get another box from the van.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say.

  “Sure.”

  “No offense, but what makes a guy your age dress up the way you do?”

  He laughs. “What do you think I’m supposed to be?”

  “I don’t know. A tree?”

  “Close. I’m a Green Man.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  He straightens up and launches into his spiel. As he talks, I’m still not sure I get it, but I like his enthusiasm.

  “The Green Men are the messengers of spring,” he says. “We’re the ones who carry the seeds of rebirth. We’re always looking for a good resting place because we have to sleep away the winter, dreaming the promise of renewal.”

  “And that’s a Baltimore thing?”

  “No, it goes back to England. Have you ever been over there?”

  I shake my head.

  “You see the image of the Green Man all over the place,” he says. “On pub signs and on carvings in churches. They’re literally everywhere. On some buildings you see them in place of gargoyles, the water draining from their open mouths. The funny thing is, people don’t really notice them anymore. And if they do, most of them don’t understand their significance.”

  “That they’re messengers of spring,” I say.

  “Exactly. We’re symbols of hope, but it’s more than just a promise. The Green Man brings in the spring. Without us, all you get is winter.”

  “So the people coming to this convention—it’s like a spiritual thing for them?”

  “Partly. For some of us. But it’s also fun to just dress up and fill a hotel with a gathering of faeries and goblins and all.”

  We’re done loading his dolly and he locks up his van.

  “So how come it’s all European faeries?” I ask. “I’ve never heard of Green Men before, but I’ve seen faeries in kids’ books, and the people here look like they do in the pictures or in a Disney movie. How come there aren’t any native faeries?”

  “You mean Native American?”

  “Sure, but I was talking more about North America in general.”

  He gives me a curious look, and I realize that since I moved here, this is the longest conversation I’ve had with anyone except for Uncle Herbert.

  “I’ve got to get this stuff inside and set up,” he says, “but you should come by my booth when the Market closes. We can talk some more then.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he says. “We come in all shapes and sizes.” He offers me his hand. “I’m Tom Hill. If you change your mind, I’m in booth forty-eight.”

  I take his hand. “I’m Joey Green,” I say, then laugh. “Maybe I would fit in.”

  “What’s the story behind your surname?” he asks.

  “As in what does it mean?”

  He nods.

  I shrug. “It just means one of my ancestors liked the sound of it. We never used surnames until the government forced us, so people just made up whatever they felt like calling themselves.”

  “I still think this is an auspicious meeting,” he says.

  I’m not sure what the word means, so I just give him another shrug.

  “Thanks again for your help,” he adds. “Think about dropping by later.”

  “Sure,” I tell him, because it’s easier than coming up with excuses.

  * * *

  I don’t realize I’m going to take him up on it until later in the day, when this part of the job’s all done. Uncle Herbert comes over to where I’m sitting out on the loading dock with the rest of the crew, listening to them talk.

  “You ready to go, Joey?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “One of the guys in the show asked me to stick around, so I thought I might.”

  He checks me out with a look that would do Tía Luba proud, then just nods.

  “I’ll see you later, then,” he says.

  I like the fact that he trusts me enough to not give me any advice.

  “You got your eye on one of those girls?” Luther asks.

  I don’t bother answering.

  Luther laughs. “See if she’s got a friend for me,” he says as he heads off with Uncle Herbert and the others.

  I have second thoughts when I go back into the hotel. What do I really think is going to happen here? Hill will probably just give me a blank look when I show up at his booth.

  I hesitate in the doorway of the Market. The place is transformed. It looks more like some old-fashioned market in a forest glade than a dealers’ room in a hotel. Somebody comes up and starts to tell me that the room’s closed, but I tell him I’m part of the setup crew.

  “I’m supposed to meet Tom Hill,” I add.

  The man nods. “Do you know where his booth is?”

  “Number forty-eight.”

  But when I get to the booth, he’s not there. There’s only a pretty girl about my age in a silky green dress with flowers and leaves sewn onto it. Her long red-gold hair hangs in a braid halfway to her waist, and she’s got the little points on the tips of her ears that everybody here seems to have. I walked by a booth that was selling them on my way to Hill’s. The girl is sitting with a closed book on her lap—a big old book with a tooled-leather binding—and she’s playing with a beaded bracelet. The only thing that seems out of place is the pair of cat’s-eye sunglasses she’s wearing.

  I stand at the booth, unsure again, so I check out what’s for sale. Hill specializes in tooled-leather masks. His work’s incredible. I’ve got a cousin who does this kind of thing with boots, so I know how much artistry and skill are involved. Most of the masks are intricate collections of leaves with eyeholes. Some are simple, little more than leafy Zorro masks. Others are so complicated I can’t imagine how many hours it took to complete them.

  I look at the price tag on one of them. If people are buying these, he’s making a good profit.

  I’m about to turn away when the girl suddenly lifts her head.

  “Is someone there?” she asks.

  I feel like telling her that she’ll see a lot better without the shades on, but all I say is “I’m looking for Tom Hill.”

  “He’s my dad. He just stepped out to talk to the rest of his hedge, but he should be back soon.”

  “His what?”

  She laughs and it sounds like delicate bells.

  “Are you new to the con?” she asks.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Do you know what a Green Man is?”

  I nod, but she doesn’t go on, so I add, “Yeah, your dad was explaining them to me.”

  “Well, a hedge is what they call a line of Green Men. I think they’re working out a welcome for one of the Guests of Honor.”

  “Okay.”

  She laughs again, and I find myself wishing I had a recording of it so that I could play it whenever I wanted.

  “Why don’t you come into the booth?” she says. “You can keep me company while you wait for him. I promise I don’t bite.”

  “You should be careful about who you talk to. I could be anybody.”

  “But that’s one of the cool things about life,” she says.

  “What? That strangers can be dangerous?”

  “No, silly. That we can be anybody we choose.”

  “It doesn’t really work that way in my world,” I tell her.

  “Now you really have to come sit with me and tell me all about this world of yours.”

  Why not? I think. Maybe I can get her to laugh some more for me.

  As I come around the table to where she’s sitting, the bracelet she’s been playi
ng with drops from her hand.

  “Crap,” she says. “Would you get that for me?”

  She doesn’t even look at where it fell.

  Why don’t you get it yourself, princess? I want to say, but then I suddenly realize something and I feel like a heel.

  “You can’t see, can you?” I say.

  “Well, I can see light and dark shapes to some degree, but I’m pretty much legally blind.”

  She just says it like a fact, with no hint of bitterness or self-pity.

  I don’t know what to say, so I settle for “Bummer.”

  “Yeah. I miss colors most of all, especially with all the costumes here at FaerieCon.”

  “So you weren’t always blind.”

  She shakes her head. “I like to say that I strayed into Faerieland and it was such an intense experience that I went blind—you know, like the stories that say some people go mad when they come back.”

  “Faerieland,” I repeat.

  “Work with me,” she says.

  “Okay. You lost your sight going into Faerieland. Got it.”

  “And so,” she goes on, “the only way I can get my sight back is if I return there. Or maybe I can find my way to Bordertown and some faerie mage can cure me.”

  “Bordertown?” I repeat. “The only border towns I know are places like Nogales, and I don’t think you’re going to find any faeries there.”

  “No, I mean the capital ‘B’ Bordertown that sits between Faerieland and our world.”

  “Right.”

  “I thought you were working with me,” she says.

  I grin, but she can’t see it.

  “Well, let me know if you need someone to take you there,” I say.

  That earns me another hit of that intoxicating laugh of hers.

  “Are you volunteering?” she asks.

  “Isn’t that how it works in fairy tales? You’re supposed to help people out as you wander around trying to make your fortune.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “No, I’m just trying to save up enough to buy myself a pickup.”

  I sit on her extra chair and lean down to pick up the bracelet for her.

  “Here,” I say.