SEPTEMBER MORNING BELL.
The upper bell of the hourglass was almost empty.
“That’s still a clock,” Saturday pointed out.
“True. But the Ravished have their own miseries. The Stumbled cannot stay—the Ravished cannot leave.”
“What?” cried September.
“September, do you remember your big orange book that you like so much, full of old stories and tales? And do you remember a certain girl in that book, who went underground and spent the whole winter there, so that the world mourned and snowed and withered and got all covered in ice? And because she ate six pomegranate seeds, she had to stay there in the winter and could only come home in the springtime?”
“Yes,” said September slowly.
“That is what it means to be Ravished. When the sand runs out, you must go home, just like poor Mallow. But when spring comes again, so will you, and the hourglass will turn over again. It will all begin anew. You are bound to us now, but you will never live fully here, nor fully there. Ravished means you cannot stay and you cannot go. You ate heartily in Fairyland, and I am so terribly glad you did, even though it was certainly naughty of me to have tricked you so. But I do think I warned you not to eat, so you cannot bring suit against me.”
September laughed. “You did warn me.” She thought of her mother, of leaving her every spring. But then, hadn’t the Marquess said that when you go home, it’s just as though you never left? Maybe her mother would not miss her. Maybe it would be like dreaming.
A-Through-L tucked his huge head against September’s little neck, nuzzling her.
“When spring comes, I shall meet you at the Municipal Library, and you will see how much I’ve learned! You’ll be so proud of me and love me so!”
“Oh, Ell, but I do love you! Right now!”
“One can always bear more love,” the Wyverary purred.
Suddenly, September thought of something that had, excusably, escaped her until this moment.
“Green! If the old laws are all broken, then Ell’s wings needn’t be chained down anymore!”
“Certainly not!”
September ran to the great bronze chains—they were still bound with a great padlock, and no amount of rattling budged them.
“Oh, if only I knew how to pick a lock!” sighed September. “I’ve turned out to be no kind of thief at all!”
You and I may imagine this simple plea floating up and out of the golden field and up into the sky, winding and wending toward our stalwart friend, the jeweled Key, which had sought September through all of her adventures. We cannot fully understand the joy that exploded in the heart of the Key as it heard September’s cry, and how fast it flew, knowing she needed it, knowing its girl cried out for it.
Winking down out of the sun, the Key fell like a firefly. It flashed and sparkled, a glittering dart, and came to rest just where September longed for it to be—nestled in the lock of the Wyverary’s chains. It glittered with the shock of arriving just when it was called for, the pleasure and surprise of it. With a click, the Key turned. Peace and contentment flooded through its tiny body. The padlock fell away; the chains slid to the earth. A-Through-L, for the first time since he was a tiny lizard at his mother’s side, spread his wings.
The great scarlet things cast them all in shade and kicked up warm winds as he flapped them once, twice, and lifted uncertainly into the air. Ell choked, tears welling in his eyes.
“Did you know I could fly, September? I can! I can!” The Wyverary soared up, whooping, spitting joyful fire into the clouds.
“Oh, I did know, Ell,” September whispered as her friend looped and did somersaults in the sky. “I did.”
September looked down at the Key, finally. Her Key, with which she had unlocked the puzzle of the world. It basked in her gaze.
“Have you followed me all this way?” she gasped.
It spun around, terribly pleased.
“Oh, Key, how extraordinary!”
The Key thought it might die of the sound of her voice. September gathered it up in her hand, and it felt it must die all over again, for the touch of her fingers.
“Will you do something for me?”
It would do anything, of course it would.
“Go and unlock the others. All over Fairyland, everyone chained and unable to fly freely. When you’re done, it will be spring and time for me to come back, and then we shall not be parted again, and you shall ride on my lapel, and we will share jokes in the moonlight and look very fine on parade.”
It bowed to her, not a little puffed up. Then the Key rose up and flew away out of sight, twinkling like a tiny star.
“It’s almost time,” said the Green Wind gently. The wine-colored sand was nearly spent.
“I understand now,” September said ruefully.
“What?” said Saturday.
“What the sign meant. To lose your heart. When I go home, I shall leave mine here, and I don’t think I shall ever have it back.”
“I will keep it safe for you,” Saturday whispered, barely brave enough to say it.
“Will you see the witch Goodbye gets her Spoon, Green?”
“Of course, my lambswool.”
“And you’ll show Gleam Pandemonium and the sea and the highwheels and all sorts of things, Ell? Like she wanted, to see the world.”
Above them, the Wyverary laughed. “If the Library gives me weekend liberty, I shall!”
The orange lantern bounced and shone.
September turned to Saturday.
“Did you see her?” the Marid said nervously, looking at her with great dark eyes. “Our daughter. Standing on the Gear. Did you see her?”
“What?” said September—and then she winked out, like someone blowing out a candle, and all the field was still.
CHAPTER XXII
RAVISHED MEANS YOU CANNOT STAY
In Which September Returns Home
Evening was just beginning to peep through the windows of September’s little house, glowing blue and rose. September found herself at the kitchen sink, with her hands deep in soapy water that had long gone cold, a pink-and-yellow teacup still clutched in her hand. Behind her, a small, amiable dog yapped away at nothing. September looked down—her lonely mary jane, which had missed all the adventures, lay cast off and forgotten on the parquet floor. Her feet were bare.
“Mama won’t be home yet!” she said suddenly. “Oh, how glad I shall be to see her!”
September put on a kettle of tea for her mother and set out a clean little plate with an orange on it. She opened all the windows to let fresh air in. She even let the small dog kiss her nose. September got a blanket out of the closet and curled up in her father’s big, threadbare armchair just by the door, so the first thing her mother saw when she came home would be her girl, safe and sound. Besides, September felt as though she could sleep for a century. She pulled the woolen blanket up around her chin as the dog chewed its own tail at the foot of the chair.
“I wonder what did happen to the Fairies after all?” she said to the dog, who wagged his tail, pleased to be paid attention to. “When I get back, that will be the first thing I shall ask Ell about! After all, Fairy begins with F! And when spring comes again, I shall be sure to leave Mother a note and a nice glass of milk.”
September drifted off to sleep in her armchair, her long hair wrapped around her. When her mother came home from a long shift at the factory, she smiled and bundled her girl off to bed, snug and whole and warm.
She didn’t notice. Of course, she didn’t. Who would, after a long graveyard shift and with her back so sore? A mother cannot see every little thing—and glad we may be that she could not—as it would have caused a great deal of trouble September would never have been able to explain. All stories must end so, with the next tale winking out of the corners of the last pages, promising more, promising moonlight and dancing and revels, if only you will come back when spring comes again.
For when she lifted her daughter up out of th
e threadbare couch, September cast no shadow at all.
THE GIRL WHO RULED FAIRYLAND
FOR A LITTLE WHILE
In which a young girl named Mallow leaves the country for the city, meets a number of Winds, Cats, and handsome folk, sees something dreadful, and engages, much against her will, in Politicks of the most muddled kind.
History is a funny little creature. Do you remember visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow, and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on it. You couldn’t predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it might decide to bite. You couldn’t tell what it thought or felt, or how old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously, decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head.
History is like that.
Of course, unlike your Aunt’s cat, history is going on all around you, all the time, and is often quite lively. Sometimes it rests in a sunbeam for a peaceful century or two, but on the whole, history is always plotting, and it bites very hard. It stalks around the world, fickle and dissatisfied and often angry. It demands to be fed just a little earlier each day, until you find yourself carving meat from the bone as fast as you can, faster than you thought possible, just to satisfy it. Some people have a kind of marvelous talent for calming it and enticing it onto their laps. To some it will never even spare a glance.
No matter where one begins telling a story, a very long road stretches out before and behind, full of wild and lovely creatures performing feats and acts of daring. No matter how much a narrator might want to, she cannot pack all of them into one tale. That’s the trouble—history goes on all around the story at hand, it is what made it happen and what will happen after, all of those extraordinary events and folk and dangers and near-misses, choices that had to be made so that everything after could happen as it did. A single story is but one square of blueberries growing in one plot, on one farm, on the fertile face of the whole world. A heroine steps in, and sees a wickedness in need of solving—but she is never the first, or the last. She plays her part, blessedly and necessarily innocent of that fat old cat sneaking around the borders of her tale, licking its paws while she bleeds and fights, whipping its tail at her trials and yawning at her triumphs. The cat does not care. It has seen all this before and will see it again.
In short, Fairyland has always needed saving.
This is a story about another girl, and another time, and another terrible thing that wanted very much to happen in Fairyland. You may have heard of her, for that striped old monster called history sat very happily in her lap and let her feed it milk.
Her name was Mallow.
Once upon a time, a girl named Mallow grew very tired indeed of her little country house, where she grew the same enormous luckfigs and love-plantains every summer, slept on the same talking bed, and studied the same tame and amiable magic. Her friends would visit her from time to time, for she lived on the shores of a whiskey lake where trifle-trees hung heavy with raisin and soursop tarts, but they had their own quite thrilling lives, and Mallow did not insist that they stay just to make her happy. She was not that sort of girl, and prided herself on it. One of her dearest and handsomest friends was a sorcerer, and from him she had learned so much magic even her hairpins got up and started living serious-minded lives, writing hairpin-ballads, celebrating hairpin-holidays, and inventing several new schools of philosophy. But still Mallow was discontent, for all the magic she knew was Dry Magic, and she longed for more.
Now, magic, like people, turns out quite differently depending on how it was brought up. Long ago a quorum of the sort of folk who knew about such things (almost all young, excitable, and prone to declaring things at high volumes) decided that mere Light and Dark Magics were insufficient to Fairyland’s needs, and rather boring to boot. Soon after the mystical scene exploded with new notions: Dry Magic and Wet Magic, Hot Magic and Cold Magic, Fat Magic and Thin Magic, Loud Magic and Shy Magic, Bitter Magic and Sour Magic, Sympathetic Magic and Severe Magic, even Umbrella Magic and Fan Magic. Fairyland knows more sorts of magic than I could ever tell you about, even if you and I had all the time and tea we could wish for.
But Mallow’s sorcerer friend had been a Dry Magician, and though Mallow did not really think of herself as a magician yet—more of a freelance wizard or part-time hag—she belonged to the Dry School as well. Dry Magic, having been invented by a middle-aged museum curator on her night shift, consorts with inanimate objects, books and maps and lamps and doors and hairpins. The Sands of Time also figure in the higher levels, as well as the Dust of Ages and Thirsts of all kinds. It is a difficult discipline, and Mallow had mastered it. Yet still she yearned to know Wet Magic too, which had to do with living things, with tears and rain and love and blood. Truly, Mallow yearned to know everything. Curiosity was part of her, like her short blond hair and bitten fingernails. The best thing in the world was not her luckfigs or her whiskey lake, not her weeping-orchid garden or the cast-iron ducks that thudded heavily on her windowsills every morning, hoping for a bit of onion oil to moisten their bills, not even her friends or her little country house, but having curiosity satisfied, feeling the warm, sure spread of knowledge through her body.
If this is so, you might well ask, why do you stay in your cozy house, Mallow, and not venture out into the wilder bits of Fairyland looking for things to know? Are you fearful? Are you ill?
If I am to tell you the truth and I think that I must, if I am to do my job well, Mallow was not like the other creatures in Fairyland. She had used her magic to make a pleasant life for herself, where she could be alone as she preferred, and where nothing would disturb or hurt her if she did not want to be disturbed or hurt. This was important to her, for she wished to be safe, and she wished to live in a kind world, which on the best of days Fairyland could only manage for an hour or two before getting bored and playing a trick on a maiden or nine.
I will tell you what her ducks would say on the subject, for Mallow herself would, with a bright smile, tell you to mind your business and send you on your way with a warm soursop pudding. Her ducks, after all, knew her quite as well as anyone, and since she gathered their coal eggs for breakfast every morning (do not worry! once cracked open the little black things overflow with smoky, rich yolk the color of ink) they felt she was in some sense their rooster and therefore family.
All three of the cast-iron ducks would tell you quackingly: “Mallow is the cleverest girl since the first girl, so she knows the magic of Keeping to Yourself. When she first built her little house—we saw it! With her own hands! And only a few of the windows were mysticked up out of candy or wishes—the villagers couldn’t leave her alone. That’s Winesap village, just down the road, population two hundred Fairies, one hundred Ouphes, fifty Tanuki, several Gnomes, and at least one Jack-in-the-Green. Practically all of them showed up at her door with Fairy food and gold, looking helpful and honest as best they could. Where did she come from? What did she do for a profession? Why had she chosen Winesap? Did she find any of the Fairy youths attractive in a marrying way? What sort of magic could she do and would she do it right now for all to see? Would she represent her Folk in the Seelie come harvest time?”
Mallow’s bed would then ruffle its linens, plump its pillows into a mouth, and join in to explain the situation: “We beds know quite well that in addition to all the other kinds of magic there is Yes Magic and No Magic, and Mallow is wonderful fierce at No Magic. Sometimes that is the last magic you can hold on to, when all the rest has gone. No, she said to all of it. ‘I want to live a little life in a little house by a little lake. I do not want to be bothered by anyone. I do not want to marry a Fairy
boy. I do not want to ply my trade at the market. I do not want to pass laws at the Seelie which will vanish up in green smoke by dawn when everyone does as they like anyway. I do not want to muddle about with Politicks, and whenever two Folk of any sort are in a room together there are always Politicks to be muddled in. I have all the books I could need, and what more could I need than books? I shall only engage in commerce if books are the coin. Come to my door if you have a book—and a good one, not just your great-aunt’s book of doily patterns—and I will give you an egg or a cake or a pair of woolen socks. I am a practical girl, and a life is only so long. It should be spent in as much peace and good eating and good reading as possible and no undue excitement. That is all I am after.’ Poor thing has had troubles in her youth. She only wanted a gentle, slow sort of living from then till forever.”
Mallow’s hairpins would clack together into a little wiry homunculus and finish up: “No one in Fairyland had ever met a practical girl before, who looked to the future and expected winter to come. They were deathly curious, but hermits are greatly respected. A village counts itself blessed to have one, and Mallow had done just as well as announcing she meant to be a country witch in commune with the cosmos. Every so often a book would appear on her doorstep—good ones, such as Cabbage’s Index of Wunnerous Machines and Their Moods andButtonwood’s A Redcap’s Carol and even Arthur Amblygonite’s Advanced Manual of Questing Physicks for Experts Only—and she would leave that cake or those woolen socks or a bit of home-cut soap, and all of these economies happened in quiet before the sun came up and everyone counted it well done. Before long, the villagers had decided that ‘practical’ meant ‘extremely magical and full of interesting objects’ and had officially subtitled themselves, Winesap: A Pracktical Towne.”