The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland In a Ship of Her Own Making (20 page)

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In Which All Is Revealed

“Surely the wrench is too small,” said September.

“I told you,” coaxed the Marquess, her hair full of storm colors, violet and grey. “It is not a wrench. It is a sword, impossibly old. It will be whatever size you need it to be.”

“But…then there would be no more adventures. No more fairies in my world to tell stories about, and no humans here to know what a wyvern looks like. No more fairy tales at all, for where would they come from?”

“No more fairies making mischief, spoiling beer and cream, stealing children, eating souls. No more humans meddling with Fairyland, mucking up its politics and tracking mud all over the floor.”

“And I should not ever be able to go home.”

“That is why I had to go to such lengths to bring you here, to show you Fairyland as it really is. It is a sacrifice I ask of you, September. A very great one, I know. But you must do it, for all the other children to come.” The Marquess’s hair seeped indigo. “Besides, it shouldn’t be that hard. You didn’t even wave goodbye to your father, shooting at people in some awful battlefield! You didn’t think of your mother at all! You don’t
want
to go home, not really. Stay here and play with me. I will let your friends free and we can all dance together through the snow and the storm. I know such wonderful games.”

September might have cried, a week ago, shamed at how she had treated her mother and father. But she was wrung dry of tears now.

“I won’t,” she said firmly. “It was wrong of me not to say goodbye. That does not mean it is right to put an end to everything. How awful it would be to say that no other child should ever get to see what I have seen? To ride on a wyvern and a highwheel, to meet a witch?”

The Marquess frowned. Her hair shivered into a frosty white. “I suspected you would say that. You are selfish, after all, and heartless, like all children. But allow me to make my argument?”

Iago, the Panther of Rough Storms, appeared silently at her side as though he had always been there. He purred.

September, her skin finally, slowly warming in the hall, allowed the Marquess to pull her onto Iago’s back, where an onyx saddle bore her up. She could not help but think of the Leopard and the Green Wind as the monarch of Fairyland settled in behind her and put her arms around September’s waist.

Gleam hesitated:

She will lie to you.

“I know,” September sighed. “But how else will Saturday see the sun again? Or Ell?”

I am one hundred and eleven years old.

That is a long time. I know her--

With a singing snap, a silver arrow pierced Gleam’s papery skin and she dropped to the floor in mid-sentence. September whirled in the saddle. The Marquess tucked her iceleaf bow behind her back, where it disappeared like vapor, the thorny branch of it still quivering slightly as it dissolved.

“Old folk are so terribly annoying, don’t you agree? Always trying to spoil our fun with their incessant babbling about bygone days!”

Before September could protest, Iago leapt into the air, soaring up into the towers of the Lonely Gaol, leaving the ruin of a paper lantern, broken, behind them.

A pale green hand crept out of the top of the lantern, covered with blood. After awhile, it was still.

Everywhere she looked, September was surrounded by clocks. In a tiny room at the top of a bulbous tower, the Marquess, Iago, and September crowded in, nearly squeezed out by the volume of clocks: grandfather clocks and bedside alarm clocks and dear little Swiss cuckoo clocks with golden birds in them, pocket-watches and pendulum clocks and water clocks and sundials. The ticking went on and on, like heartbeats. Under each clock was a little brass plaque, and on each plaque was a name. September did not recognize any of them.

“This is a very secret place, September. And a very sad one. Each of these clocks belongs to a child who has come to Fairyland. When it chimes midnight, the child is sent home--all in a huff, whether she asked to go or not! Some clocks run fast, so fast a boy might dwell in Fairyland for no more than an hour. He wakes up, and what a lovely dream he had! Some run slow, and a girl might spend her whole life in Fairyland, years upon years, until she is snapped horribly back home to mourn her loss for the rest of her days. You can never know how your clock runs. But it does run, and always faster than you think.”

The Marquess leaned forward, her hair shining redder than any apple. She smoothed the dust from a plaque under a particular clock: a milky pink-gold one, cut out of a whole, enormous pearl. Its hands stood golden and motionless at ten minutes to midnight.

The plaque beneath the clock read:
September
.

“You see?” crooned the Marquess. “You have so little time left. Just enough to fly down to the seaside with Iago and do as I ask. Or else you will be snatched back, and your friends stuck here with me. I promise, I will take out my frustration upon them. Don’t be stubborn! Just a little turn of your wrench, and all will be well. You can eat lemon ices and ride highwheels to your heart’s content, and your boys safe beside you.”

September touched the face of the pearly clock. She picked it up, marveling at it. She was so tired. All she wanted was to sleep, and wake up to steaming cocoa, and then sleep again. If Saturday and Ell were safe, she could sleep. She tried not to think about Gleam. It would be wonderful, really, to live in Fairyland forever. Isn’t that what anyone would wish for? Isn’t that what she herself had wished for, so often? To fly and leap and know magic and eat Gagana’s Eggs and meet fairies? September closed her eyes. She saw her mother there, on the backs of her eyelids. Crying, on the edge of her bed. Because she had not left a note. Had not even waved goodbye.

When she opened them again, her eyes fell on the little brass plaque:
September.
Furtively, so that the Marquess might miss her doing it, she glanced at the other plaques. They said things like:
Gregory Antonio Bellanca
and
Harriet Marie Seagraves
and
Diana Penelope Kincaid
. But hers just said:
September
. And didn’t it look a little tacked-on? Was there, possibly, just the shadow of something else behind it? September bent her head and picked at the bottom corner of the plaque with her thumb.

“What are you doing?” The Marquess said sharply.

September ignored her. The plaque gave a little--she pried it out with her fingernails. It clattered to the floor. Behind it was a much older plaque, gone green with verdigris. It read:

Maud Elizabeth Smythe

“True names,” said September wonderingly. “These are all true names. Like, when your parents call you to dinner and you don’t come and they call again but you still don’t come, and they call you by all your names together, and then, of course, you have to come, and right quick. Because true names have power, like Lye said. But I never told anyone my true name. The Green Wind told me not to. I didn’t understand what he meant, but I do now.” September looked up. Iago watched her with his round, calm eyes. He flicked his gaze toward the Marquess and September knew, all of the sudden, she knew it, though she could not say, not exactly, how she could possibly have known. “This is your clock!” she cried, brandishing it. “And it’s stopped!”

The Marquess’s hair went black with rage. Her face flushed and Iago growled under his breath. But finally, she gave out a long sigh and simply took off her hat. She lay it gently on the gable of a cuckoo clock. She ran her hands through her hair--it faded to a plain, dull blonde. She ran her hands over her dress--it became a grey farmer’s daughter’s dress, with old, yellow lace at the collar.

“I dreamed about you!” cried September.

“We are alike, I said. It would break your heart, September, how alike we are. This is what I looked like, when I was eleven, and lived on my father’s farm. We grew more tomatoes than any other farm in Ontario. Just acres of them. But we weren’t rich. My father drank most anything we earned. My mother was a seamstress--she took in all the mending from the neighbors. She died when I was eight, and I took up the mending after that, so that I could eat some and have a Sunday dress after the harvest was in and the whiskey-house closed down. I always smelled like tomatoes. And then, one day, when I couldn’t bear the mules and the chores and the horrid, horrid tomatoes any longer, I hid in the attic until my father gave up looking for me and went to work the fields with his hands. I had a splendid day up there, rooting around among all the old things my mother had left behind, and her mother before that. Of course, you can imagine what happened. There was an old armoire, covered in a dropcloth. I pulled down the cloth, and when I opened the door of the armoire, it was so deep and dark in there that I couldn’t see a thing. So I climbed inside. And the door closed so fast behind me. And I kept walking, until somehow the sun was shining again and I was standing in a field of the greenest grass and the prettiest red flowers you ever saw. And right there in front of me was a Leopard, as big as life.” The Marquess’s eyes filled with tears. “I Stumbled, September, into Fairyland. I didn’t know what I’d done, only that it was so beautiful, and the wind was so sweet, and there were no tomatoes anywhere. I certainly didn’t know I had a clock. I had such adventures, oh, so many! I grew up a bit, and was so glad to grow up a bit, and not be small and grey any longer. I learned such things--I met a young sorcerer with funny old wolf-ears, and he let me read all of his books. Can you imagine? A farmer’s daughter, being allowed to sit and read all day with no one to bother her? I though I would die with the pleasure of it. And every day the sorcerer would ask my name, but I was ashamed to tell him. Maud is so ugly and plain, and everyone here was named something marvelous. But, one day, we were working the garden. The sorcerer was showing me how to harvest a particular root to make a kind of candy that might, if you boiled it just right, turn your hair all manner of colors.” The Marquess looked up at September, tears streaking her face. She spread out her hands, trembling. “I took his hand in mine, and I said:
you can call me Mallow
.”

September’s mouth dropped open.

“The days went by like dreams, September. Before I knew it I had a sword and I’d faced down King Goldmouth and his army of clouds, and I was Queen. I ruled long and well and wisely. Anyone will tell you. I married my sorcerer. We were happy. Fairyland prospered, and I could hardly remember what a tomato was anymore. My Leopard played at my side. I discovered, by and by, that I was with child. I had not told my sorcerer yet. I was enjoying my secret, lying in the broad lawn outside my palace and drifting off into sleep, my head propped up on my Leopard’s flank.

I think, well, when I remember it now I think I can remember the tick. The last tick of my clock. With one awful ticking I was swept out of Fairyland as though I had never been there. I woke up in my father’s house, curled up inside the armoire, as though no time at all had passed. No Leopard. No sorcerer. No child. I was eleven again, and hungry, and my father was just getting home from his day’s work. He bellowed up to me, his voice thick with liquor. But oh, how I remembered it all! I remembered it fiercely, my whole life in Fairyland, taken away in an instant! Because a
clock
ran out! September, surely you can feel in your bones the unfairness of it! The loss! I screamed in the armoire. I kicked the wooden walls in, trying to get back. I cried as though I was dying. My father found me and gave me a good thrashing for sneaking around where I oughtn’t. I tasted blood in my mouth.”

The Marquess sank to her knees. Iago pressed his silky black head against her cheek.

“How…how did you get back?” September said softly.

“I
clawed
my way back, September. I would have broken the world open to crawl back in. I searched every scrap of furniture in that attic for another way. But the armoire was just an armoire, and the closet just a closet, and the jewelry box just a jewelry box. I read newspapers ravenously, looking for missing children, begging my father to take me to the places where they’d vanished. He refused. He got a new wife, and she sent me away to school, to be rid of me. I didn’t care--I was glad to be rid of them! My new school was old and creaky, with dusty corners and drafty halls. Just the sort of place that might conceal a door to Fairyland, in a story. And one morning, just walking to geometry class, I took one step on those dirty cobblestones and took the next one in a broad golden field full of glowerwheat. It was a hard passage--blood shot out of my nose and I think I probably fainted. We aren’t meant to come that way, so harshly. But it was the only way.”

“What was?” September was almost afraid to know.

“The clock, September. The clock is all. It is the only arbiter. What I needed was a man on the inside. Someone in Fairyland, a friend. Not a husband, or a Leopard. Someone whose loyalty and love for me was greater than any law, any boundary, stronger than blood or reason or cat or man. Someone I had made with my own hands, who loved only me, who could not bear to be parted from me.”

“Lye!”

“Yes, Lye, my poor golem. She risked her whole being to come here, where the water is relentless and wore so much of her away. She battled the guards, who in those days were bear-wights, and gained entrance to this little room. She set my clock going backward, and pulled me back into this world by the scruff of my neck. I didn’t know that, then. It was only later, when I came here myself, that I discovered her tracks. Standing in her soapy footprints I stopped my clock, so that it could never snatch me back out of my own life again. I was a child once more, but I was home. Time is a mystery here. Only a year back home and everyone I knew here, in my life as Mallow, had grown old or died. No one remembered what I looked like as a child. I told them I’d killed her. I tore down her banners and broke her throne. And so I had my revenge.”

“But why? You could have ruled well again, and been loved! Maybe your time was done, maybe defeating King Goldmouth and restoring Fairyland was your destiny, and when it was finished…”

The Marquess grimaced. She ran her hands back over her hair--the black curls returned. She ran her hands over her dress--black crinoline flowed over her, and lace, and jewels. She placed her hat firmly back on her head and dried her eyes.

“I am not a toy, September! Fairyland cannot just cast me aside when it’s finished playing with me! If this place could steal my life from me, well, I, too, can steal. I know how the world works--the real world. I brought it all back with me--taxes and customs and laws and the Greenlist. If they wanted to just
drop
me back in the human world, I can drop the human world into theirs, every bit of it. I punished them all! I bound down their wings and I set the lions on them if they squeaked about it. I made Fairyland
nice
for the children who come over the gears, I made it
safe.
I did it for every child before me who had a life here, who was happy here! Don’t you see, September?
No one should have to go back
. Not ever. We can fix this world, you and I. Uncouple the gears and save us both! Let this be a place where no one has to be dragged home, screaming, to a field full of tomatoes and a father’s fists!”

September reeled. She had thought she was done with crying, but she could not bear the Marquess’s tale. Tears flowed hot and frightened and bitter. Iago howled, mourning for Mallow or the Marquess or Fairyland, September could not be sure.

“I’m sorry, Mallow…”

“Don’t call me that,” the Marquess snapped.

“Maud, then. I’m so sorry.”

“Are you going to tell me how wicked I am?”

“No.”

“Good. Now do as I say, little girl, or I shall throttle your friends in front of you, and let Iago have the meat of them.”

Iago grimaced a little.

September still clutched the pearly clock to her breast. She could not imagine it--living a whole life here and then, suddenly, horribly, being a lost child again, all of everything gone. It was too awful to think of. Gently, September turned the clock over in her hands. But the Marquess, poor Maud, was broken now, and she wanted to break Fairyland, too, to make it like her, sad and bitter and coiled up like a snake, ready to strike at anyone, friend or foe. September slid her fingernail under the latch. The door of the clock’s workings sprang free. What if it had been September, and she had lived here so long that she forgot home?

September’s hands found the stopped gears. She knew she could do it. Clocks were easy. Her mother had taught her about clocks ages ago.
Even if it were me
, she thought,
I could not chain Ell’s wings like that
.

September drew the wrench from her side. It was huge and long, its copper hand gleaming brightly.

“It will be as big as I need it to be,” she murmured.

And the wrench sighed. It melted in her hand like a popsicle in the summertime, until it was delicate and tiny, a jeweler’s tool. Before the Marquess could tell her not to, September gripped the offending wheel within the heart of Maud Elizabeth Smythe's clock with her wrench and pulled at it.

“Don’t you dare!” cried the Marquess. She ran her hand along Iago’s black spine. He just looked up at her, his emerald eyes sad.

“Mallow…” he whispered. “I’m tired.”

“Please! I can’t go back!” The Marquess snatched September’s hand, squeezing it horribly tight.

“Don’t you touch me!” cried September. “I’m not like you!”

The Marquess laughed her knife-like laugh again. “Do you think Fairyland loves you? That it will keep you close and dear, because you are a good girl and I am not? Fairyland loves no one. It has no heart. It doesn’t care. It will spit you back out just like it did me.”

September nodded miserably. They were both crying, struggling with the wrench. September plunged her fingers into the clock, desperately trying to turn the wheel on her own. The gears cut her chilblained hands and soaked the clock’s innards with blood.

“No, no, I won’t let you! I won’t go home!” The Marquess sobbed. And then she did an extraordinary thing.

She let September go. The Marquess took a step back, as big a step as she could manage in that tiny place. The storm flashed lightning and rain behind her.

“I won’t let you. Either of you. Not you, not Fairyland. I won’t let you win.” She put her hand on her chest. “I have magic yet. If you will set the clock working again, then I must be still. I have read quite as many stories as you, September. More, no doubt. And I know a secret you do not: I am not the villain. I am no dark lord. I am the princess in this tale. I am the maiden, with her kingdom stolen away. And how may a princess remain safe and protected through centuries, no matter who may assail her? She sleeps. For a hundred years, for a thousand. Until her enemies have all perished and the sun rises over her perfect, innocent face once more.”

The Marquess fell down. It was so fast--one moment she stood, the next, she had dropped like a flower snapped in half. She lay perfectly still on the floor, her eyes shut, serene.

September turned the wheel with her tiny wrench. The hands moved, slowly at first, and then whirred faster and faster.

In the room, suddenly, a soft alarm bell began to ring.