Extraordinary (18 page)

Mallory nodded. “Yes, it did. And yes, our hero has a name. His name was Mayer.”

Catherine laughed.

“Just a minute,” said Drew. “Middle of Europe, two hundred-plus years ago, money lenders, ghetto. Mayer. And his wife's name is Gutle, right?”

“Exactly,” said Catherine. She and Drew smiled at each other.

“What?” Benjamin said. “Phoebe? What are they getting that I'm not? Do you know?”

Phoebe didn't answer, though she could have. Anger had begun to brew in her as she understood what story Mallory was telling. She clenched her fists. But she contained herself because her parents were clearly not angry.

“You'll see in time, Benjamin,” said Catherine. “Go on with the story, Mallory.”

“I will,” said Mallory. “So, soon our hero, Mayer, was walking deep into his forest. He saw little of what was around him, so filled was he with longing for his extraordinary sons, the sons who with his guidance would change everything and make all his dreams come true, and so hard was he struggling to give the vision up and accept instead whatever God brought him.

“He walked faster and faster. Eventually he ran, crushing tender new plants and shoots underfoot and kicking small stones out of his way and noticing none of it. At last, however, a sharp pain in his side caused him to stop. He leaned against a tree trunk, and slowly he realized that he had come to a part of the forest that was unfamiliar to him.”

And now Phoebe couldn't help herself. She snorted. “Oh, please,” she muttered.

Initially, despite herself, Phoebe had been irresistibly compelled by Mallory's story and by the way in which she told it. The world had dropped away around her as she listened. But now that she recognized it, she was no longer enchanted. In fact, she was beginning to boil.

The story was obviously a thinly veiled account of Catherine and Phoebe's famous ancestor Mayer Rothschild. Mayer had been born in the Jewish ghetto of Frankfurt am Main, Germany, in 1744. He had married Gutle. They had five sons: Amschel, Salomon, Nathan, Calmann, and Jakob. These sons were later represented on the family coat of arms by a clenched fist holding five arrows, because Mayer had eventually aimed his sons like weapons across Europe. And the word
extraordinary
did not even begin to describe Mayer, the five sons, and their effect on the world.

The family money-lending business became an international banking business that served kings and princes. Four of the sons were elevated to the nobility. The family and their business had been marked by wealth and power and privilege ever since. Even Hitler had been unable to hurt the Rothschilds; and their position, power, influence, and wealth had helped ensure the survival of many other Jews in that time of terror.

But it wasn't a
faerie
tale, Phoebe thought furiously. It was history! It was the very real history of a very real Jewish family. Her family.

And she thought she knew where Mallory was going with this, and if she was right, it was offensive!

But a glance at her parents' faces told Phoebe that they were still enchanted. Benjamin too. Everybody but Phoebe couldn't wait to hear more.

Mallory had already gone on, ignoring Phoebe. “Mayer was lost, but he would never have said so, or even have thought it. He knew how to orient himself using the sun and moon, so it didn't matter that he didn't recognize exactly where he was. I suppose you can guess what happened next?”

“Mayer saw the faeries?” Benjamin said.

This time, Phoebe really did roll her eyes, but nobody was looking at her. She looked again at her parents, but they didn't even notice. They were holding hands and grinning at Mallory.

“Yes,” said Mallory. “The sacred place, a large and open glade in the heart of the forest, was right before Mayer's eyes. As he looked at it, holding his side and panting, the moon came out from behind the clouds. It illuminated the glade.

“And dozens of shadows that a moment before Mayer had assumed to be trees came alive. They gathered silently into a perfect circle around a female who was taller than any of them. She wore a crown of flowers on her long hair, hair composed of dozens of colors that were all to be found in nature and yet would never be found there together. The yellow of a bee's fur; the russet of a fox's pelt; the white of a dandelion gone to seed; the shiny black of a songbird's eye. Her unearthly hair fell in waves that looked alive against her skin; skin that glowed in the moonlight as green as the most tender leaf of early spring.

“And then Mayer saw that her skin was not simply the color of leaves, but was actually formed
from
leaves. And he saw that despite her womanly shape, the female was as much akin to trees and plants as she was to humankind. She was of the earth in a way that no human can ever be. And she was both frightening and glorious to behold.”

“The queen of the faeries,” Drew said.

“Yes.” Mallory nodded. “Never before had Mayer seen anyone—anything—so terrible, and yet so beautiful, as the queen. If his shock had allowed him to move, he would have fallen to his knees before her and worshipped her.”

Phoebe's jaw dropped. This had suddenly gotten even more offensive than she had thought it would. She wasn't even particularly religious and she found it insufferable. How dare Mallory? But her parents were still smiling, still leaning forward in fascination. Somehow, Phoebe managed to keep silent.

“Mayer saw that the other figures were, like the queen, only humanoid in the general shapes of their bodies—and not all of them, at that. Some, like the queen, seemed related to plants; others, to animals or birds. He saw hoofed feet, and feathered backs, and wing-like arms, and on one head, a set of powerful antlers. He saw skin like bark; wrists that blossomed with flowers. On one male, he saw the face of a ferret. They all swam before his eyes, a wealth of visual sensation and of life; the very pulse of the earth and of nature.

“Watching, Mayer felt as if his senses were coming fully alive for the first time. He heard music, the sweetest strumming of strings and the highest, most delicate piping of flutes. Initially the music was faint and far away, but then it increased in volume and tempo.

“The faeries began to dance, moving in complicated steps, twisting and twining around each other. Only the queen in the center did not move. She was the still center of the dance, and Mayer understood instinctively that the dance was in tribute to her and that it served a greater purpose.

“He had forgotten his own fear and rage; forgotten his personal desperate hopes and dreams; forgotten his despair and his determination. He slipped away even from a sense of self. The tempo of the music and the dance increased; its movements grew faster and more complex; the bodies before him seemed to blur into each other and into the earth and the glade around them as they moved, joining together in ways that spoke of the intricacy of nature. Faerie laughter rang out, wild and filled with joy. A drum-like beat began, underlying the music with its insistent rhythm.

“Mayer's skin came to tingling, excited life all over his body. His clothing was suddenly an intolerable burden to him, and he tore it off. He felt the sweet air of the night breeze on every inch of his skin and knew no shame. He breathed the air in and it nourished him.

“Without hesitation, Mayer stepped forward and entered the faerie dance. He entered the worship of the queen and of the earth.”

And suddenly Phoebe could bear no more. “Oh, please!” She scrambled to her feet. “You can't seriously expect me to sit still for another second of this. I've heard enough! Mallory, I won't sit here while you insult our family with this. I'm leaving.”

“What is happening, Ryland?”

“My sister is fighting me for the soul of the girl. Her weapon is truth. But do not fear, my queen. The girl will not listen to her. She does not wish to believe. I will win.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then Catherine stood up too.

“Personally, Phoebe, I'm very entertained by Mallory's story. Where's the insult? It's creative and fascinating.”

“I think so too,” said Drew. Benjamin nodded.

But Phoebe looked only at her mother. “All that stuff about Mayer worshipping the faerie queen? Mayer was a good Jew. That's history. Also, can't you see where Mallory's going with this? It's like something from the worst kind of trashy novel!”

“You might know where Mallory is going,” said Drew mildly, from his seat on the sofa. “Or think you do. But I don't, not for sure, anyway, and I'm dying to hear the rest. So don't spoil it.” He smiled at Mallory. “I had no idea you were such a good storyteller.”

His gaze went back to Phoebe and it was as stern as she had ever seen it. “Sit down again, Phoebe. Personally, I'd like to hear more about Mayer dancing naked with the faeries on Midsummer Night.”

“Midsummer Night 1772, to be precise.” Mallory was still using her storytelling voice.

Catherine sat down.

Temptation shimmered before Phoebe. Why not sit down again, with her parents and her two best friends, and listen, listen . . .

A whisper in her inner ear.
She doesn't care about you. She's trying to trick you.

Phoebe stamped her foot like a toddler. “No! How can you guys not get it?”

All four faces turned again toward her. The irritation on her parents' faces was plain, while Benjamin only looked a little embarrassed.

Mallory's expression was a flat unemotional mask.

“Then don't listen, Phoebe! Go to bed instead,” Catherine snapped. “By morning, maybe you'll be acting your age. Marl-lory, ignore her. Continue.”

Bratty toddler
, whispered the voice in Phoebe's inner ear.

“Phoebe,” said Mallory quietly. “Please stay.”

The girls' eyes met. Phoebe felt a pull—a desire to sit down again—to listen to Mallory's voice—

“No,” said Phoebe rudely, and stomped off. She raced from the cottage like Mayer himself running through the forest. She slammed the door behind her for good measure.

Once outside, however, she slowed down to a walk. Up and down the road. Up and down the road. It was almost completely dark outside now, and if not for the lights at a couple of the houses on the road, and one streetlamp, she wouldn't have been able to see anything.

Phoebe felt that she knew exactly where Mallory's story had been heading. Mallory was going to say that Mayer had had faerie assistance, magical assistance. That it was the faeries who gave him the extraordinary sons. Perhaps Mallory would even have implied that the faerie queen was responsible for the sons' success, rather than Mayer and the sons themselves. Would she then say that the sons were part faerie, even, rather than human? It was not only insulting, it was demeaning. How could Benjamin and her parents not see that?

Because, Phoebe thought with sudden clarity, they don't imagine for a second that it could be true. To them, it's only a story. Whereas to her—

Phoebe discovered that she was crying. And the moment of clarity was gone now, leaving confusion in its wake. Impatiently, she smeared the palms of both hands across her cheeks and sniffed. What was wrong with her? It
was
only a story.

Maybe it was some plot of Mallory's to drive Phoebe crazy.

Or maybe she already was crazy. Imagining Ryland was there, as she had earlier this evening. Imagining his voice in her ear. That was nuts, wasn't it? And the garden inside the Tollivers' house—no, no. She felt so confused ...

After a while, she heard the soft sound of gravel on the road behind her, and turned. It was Benjamin, walking his bike. “Hi,” he said. He came right up to her.

Phoebe was glad it was dark, so she wouldn't have to look in Benjamin's face and see what he was thinking of her. She was trying to figure out what to say when he spoke.

“Pheeb, I have to go home, but I wanted to talk to you first. Are you okay now?”

Phoebe felt tears threaten again. She didn't want to let them out; for one thing, she knew they would embarrass Benjamin. So she stood there, holding the tears back, but because of them unable to say another syllable.

“I guess not,” Benjamin said.

Phoebe managed a hand motion meant to indicate apology.

“You still up for birding in the morning?”

She nodded.

“I'll be here at six. And listen, Pheeb? Don't bring Mallory.”

Phoebe was so surprised that the lump in her throat receded and a few words made it out. “But you—and she—”

“What are you mumbling about? There's no me and her. There's you and me. And there's you and her.” He was trying to tease her.

But this only made Phoebe's anger resurface. The good news was that the anger made her able to talk again. “Benjamin, don't humor me because I had a tantrum! Okay? She's pretty and fascinating and you were staring at her like she was a model and you were listening to her like she was Scheherazade. You know you were. And you were dying for her to come with us tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I was. But I'm not now.”

A moment of silence.

“Benjamin,” Phoebe blurted.

“What?”

“About Mallory.”

“Yeah?”

“We haven't been getting along lately.”

“You don't say.”

Phoebe laughed. It was a little, choked laugh, but it was a laugh. And then somehow, even in the dark, she knew Benjamin was grinning at her too.

“Six a.m.,” he said. “Painted bunting. You'll feel better when you see him, you really will.”