by Tad Williams
Mints on the pillow would be okay, though. It was no use trying to jolly himself. No matter how apparently ordinary the setting, he was stuck in a very strange place. People, no not even people, things were trying to kill him. He didn't know the rules. His only friend was the size of a ballpoint pen.
He pulled Uncle Eamonn's book out of his jacket pocket. Both leather jacket and notebook were looking a little the worse for wear, wrinkled from being sat on, a bit water-stained in places. He had felt sure that the book was the reason he had been dragged out of his own world, but so far no one had asked to see it or even asked him about it, even though he had mentioned it to Lady Aemilia and Cumber Sedge, just to name two people here in Daffodil House.
Theo still had no real idea of how things worked here, and he was wondering if a rereading of the notebook might help. There were things in it that he'd barely paid attention to at the time because he'd thought it was fiction — because who could ever have imagined it wasn't?
It's like someone gave me a manual on lion-taming to read, but didn't warn me I was about to be smeared with gravy and parachuted into the African veldt.
But the frustrating thing was that it wasn't an instruction book. There was no handy dictionary, no index of facts or explanation of local etiquette. It was a story written by a visitor, the areas of detail apparently arbitrary and maddeningly inconsistent.
Theo began browsing through the notebook, skipping the early autobiographical sections entirely. He wasn't even certain what he was looking for, but in the few short days since he'd crossed over or passed through or whatever the hell you called it, he'd become steadily less certain he knew what was going on. Strange as it had been, the Larkspur family forest where he had first arrived had at least felt something like what he would have expected Fairyland to be. Now it was clear that it had been no more than a private game preserve, the grounds of a rich clan's stately home. The real Fairyland was here, in this vast city — or at least it seemed to contain most of Faerie's residents. At the same time, the weird modernity seemed to carry over into other areas as well, class struggle, the power of wealth, the importance of technology . . .
A word dimly remembered from high school social studies caught his eye and he stopped to read. Although present-day Faerie is an oligarchy, and there have always been powerful families, as far as I can tell some kind of shift happened about two hundred years ago, their time — I cannot be exact, because time in Faerie is a slippery thing, and comparing it to our own world makes it even more so.
Faerie was once a true monarchy, ruled (as mortals themselves have described in poetry and folktale) by a king and queen. Shakespeare called them Oberon and Titania, but they have many other names, like Gwynn ap Nudd and Maeve (or Mab). In fact, they seem to have many names and no names because they were the only king and queen, and had been so for most of the memory of the fairy race, just as what I named New Erewhon was called simply "the City" by all in Faerie, since there were no other cities, only towns and villages.
In any case, during the time of the last Gigantine War — a war between the fairy-folk of New Erewhon and the race of giants (whose origins and habitat no one can explain better than that they come from "the Giant Country") something happened to the king and queen. They are commonly held to have been literally killed by the giants, but I have heard other explanations that suggest the king and queen died exerting some great and final force that saved the City and defeated those terrible enemies; there is a song of armored giants approaching the heart of Faerie, burning and smashing all before them, that makes them sound more fearsome than even the most modern war machines of my own world. Whatever the case, the monarchs of Fairyland fell during the last struggle in the ruins of their stronghold (which for some reason seems to have been called by a name that translates as "the Cathedral," instead of "the Palace" or anything else you might expect) and the reins of power were afterward taken up by what are commonly called the Seven Families — seven of the most powerful clans who (either heroically or opportunistically, depending on how much cynicism is applied to history) created a power structure to hold Faerie together in the vacuum that followed the death of the king and queen.
All of the famous Seven — the Daffodils, Hollyhocks, Primroses, Hellebores, Thornapples, Violets, and Lilies — were already among the land's most powerful families. Each had the normal clannish proclivities found among the high houses — the Hellebores and Daffodils fascinated by science, although in very different ways, the Violets and Lilies skilled in the creative arts, Thornapples drawn to business, and the Hollyhocks and Primroses engaged by politics. One trait they all shared, though, was a desire to rule over Faerie. After the initial panic was over and order restored they were forced by popular will to reinstate the Parliament of Blooms, but real power remained — and still remains — with these clans and their closest allies.
Then the lights went out. For a moment Theo felt certain something really bad had happened — that someone had discovered he was reading something he shouldn't and now they were coming to get him — but then he remembered the blackout in Tansy's house and various comments he'd heard about Faerie's untrustworthy power situation. When the hob-voice proclaimed that alternative power operations would begin soon and that the proper authorities had all been contacted, he could not entirely forget he was trapped in pitch-blackness in a very strange house in a place full of ogres and worse things, but he felt at least a bit reassured. Thus, when someone suddenly knocked at the door he let out only a very small scream of surprise.
"Who . . . who is it?"
"Cumber Sedge to see you," explained the hob, persisting in its duties even in the middle of a blackout.
"Me, Cumber," said the person in question. The ferisher had brought his own light, a sphere the size of a large marble which gave off enough radiance to illuminate the young fairy's mournful face but not much more. "Sorry to bother you, Master Vilmos. The hob said your light was on. Well, until all the lights went out."
"Call me Theo, please. Come on in. How are you feeling?" "You mean from the drinking? Not bad. It'll be worse when I wake up tomorrow — good thing it's Mabon and Lady Aemilia isn't expecting me to work. But about how I behaved? Pretty wretched, to tell you the truth." He followed Theo into the room and, perhaps in some kind of penance, declined a chair and sat cross-legged on the carpet.
"Ah, it happens. Everybody has to let loose sometimes." Theo hesitated. "Unless they're going to execute you for it or something."
"Nobody goes to the Well for saying things like that," Cumber said. "At least, not unless they're a goblin."
"Well, that's good. Not for goblins, I guess, but I'm glad they're not going to have you shot for insulting a Flower or something." The ferisher nodded. Even in the thin glow of the magic marble or whatever it was, he looked profoundly unhappy. Theo had thought of the long-faced Cumber Sedge as about grad-student age, but he realized now the butterscotch-colored fairy was probably at least five times that — ten times, for all Theo knew. He sipped his water and waited for the other to say something. It was a long wait.
"So, does this happen all the time?" Theo asked at last. "This blackout thing?"
Cumber shrugged. "It's been getting worse. All the power plants are strained — Lord Daffodil has three of them in Ivy and I hear they're all having problems. That's one of the reasons for the big meeting they're having."
"Oh, yeah?" Theo wondered what had brought the young fairy to his room. Cumber seemed to have something on his mind, but perhaps he just wanted the company of someone who didn't think he was a disgrace and embarrassment. "Interesting. What big meeting is that?"
Cumber looked stricken. "You haven't heard? Why hasn't anyone told you?"
"Told me what? Why should they bother to tell me?"
"Because you're one of the other reasons for the meeting."
"I'm . . . Hang on, what?" "Lady Aemilia was talking about it yesterday. Lord Daffodil knows that some of the other Houses were trying to get hold of you
, and since you're staying here, he figures he has a bit of a bargaining chip."
"Bargaining chip?" Theo felt a sudden chill. "You mean they're going to make some deal, hand me over to those people who were after me?" "No, no!" Cumber said hurriedly. "No, I can't imagine that — Lady Aemilia's way too interested in you, for one thing. But Lord Daffodil knows the Hellebores and Thornapples and that lot want you, so apparently he's decided he's going to make them worry a little, wondering what secrets you're telling him. Which reminds me, I've been kicking myself for letting Zirus drag us out tonight, especially onto Hellebore family turf — it was madness. Your friend Applecore's wrong, though — the people in charge here do care what happens to you, at least as long as you're valuable to them. And if something had gone wrong while we were outside the compound, they would probably have blamed me." He had the look of someone who'd eaten something that was not agreeing with him.
Hold on, Theo thought. Thornapples? Poppy's family? They're after me, too? Could she have known that? "I don't get this — any of it. These bad guys think I'm telling secrets to Daffodil or something? What secrets? I don't know anything. Why are they all so interested in me? These people don't even like mortals."
"This is why I wanted to come talk to you, Mast . . . Theo. I feel terrible that no one's telling you anything. Not that I know much. But I do know one important thing — something that you need to know, too." Cumber took a deep breath. "Can I get myself a glass of water? I feel like one of the Great Beasts is nesting in my mouth."
"Of course. Be my guest." The bathroom and the tap were only a few steps away, but Theo didn't relax until the ferisher had returned with his water and sat down on the floor again. In movies, someone who was about to explain something important always got shot in the back or stabbed or something just before they could tell you the Astonishing Truth.
"Well," Cumber said, "first off, you're not a mortal. You're one of us." "What?" Theo had to think for a moment to make sure he'd actually heard what he thought he'd heard. He was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "You're joking. You must be joking, right?"
Cumber Sedge shook his head. "I don't know why they haven't told you, but I know it's true. I've seen the test results. The readings on your Index of Humors — well, you're on the low end of normal, but you're certainly not mortal. No, it couldn't be anything else. And I heard Lady Aemilia talking to her brother about it."
"Her brother . . ." He was dazed. "Lord Daffodil. She called him when the results first came in." "But . . . but . . ." He tried to find something he could use as a weapon against the enormity of the attack. "I'm not human? That's bullshit! I . . . I had parents, for Christ's sake!"
Cumber flinched as if struck, but kept his eyes fixed on Theo even through obvious discomfort. "You had people who raised you," he said quietly. "Mortal people. I'm sure they were very good to you, but that doesn't mean you're related to them. Changelings seldom recognize the truth on their own. And after a certain point in their lives, they are human. You probably wouldn't have passed our tests after you'd been there a few more years, not to mention all the other things that could have accelerated or even finished off the mortalization process — having a family, undergoing a religious conversion, a serious illness . . ." For a moment the ferisher's guilty gloom was brightened by discussing his subject of expertise. "There have been cases where changelings in the mortal world have even denounced other changelings without for a moment reflecting on why they were so certain . . ."
This was like one of those topsy-turvy dreams, where someone could tell you things that you knew were wrong yet you couldn't summon a useful argument against it. "Hold on, hold on!" Theo waved his hands. His own voice sounded distant, as if someone else was speaking. "If I'm one of these . . . these fairies . . . then why are they so interested in me? Why all the tests? They couldn't have needed all that just to tell whether I was one of them or not — those reflex tests, the color-recognizing stuff . . ."
"As Lady Aemilia said — she was telling you the truth about this, anyway, Theo — they haven't seen anyone like you for a long time. There isn't much travel between your world and ours anymore. There aren't many changeling babies, and I haven't heard of any that have crossed back over to our side for ages."
"But . . . I feel like a mortal, damn it!"
"You probably do — that's how you were raised. But more importantly, you feel like you. When have you ever been anyone else to compare it to?" He tried to think of a reply but couldn't. This new dream, this nightmare, was defeating him. "Did Applecore know about this?"
"Not as far as I know. It only came up after Lady Aemilia saw the test results. Anyway, your friend doesn't seem like the type who'd keep her mouth shut about something important."
Theo had dozens more questions, but Cumber Sedge had very few answers. Tests could not show who his real parents were. The ferisher knew of no famously missing children, nor as far as he could tell did Lady Aemilia — Theo's original identity was a mystery. Switching babies with mortals had been very common in the past but was almost unheard of these days, largely because of the Clover Effect.
Theo felt like he wanted to cry, but at the same time he felt like he was drifting in a vacuum, unable to touch or even to remember the normal life he had been leading until moments earlier. Even in the midst of such abnormal events as he had experienced lately, he had still felt himself to be a very ordinary person. That was gone now: he literally had no idea of who or what he was. He sat for a while in silence, full of anger and confusion.
At last, he let out a deep, shuddering breath. "Listen, I appreciate you telling me this and everything, and someday I'll probably thank you — but for now could you get the hell out? I'd like to be on my own."
"Certainly. I understand." Cumber got to his feet, not entirely steady. "I'm sorry, but I thought you should know." "Right." He showed him to the door, tried to find something else to say as the ferisher stood awkwardly in the hallway outside, but couldn't. It was only after he slammed the door that he realized he'd sent away the only light.
He groped back to the bed and lay there in the dark, his mind a flurry of fragmentary images that did not ever quite coalesce into sense — his childhood, his mother's dying, the crazy things he had seen here, even Cat's angry, pale face. It went on for hours, or seemed to, a helpless rollercoaster ride through seemingly unending confusion.
What am I? Where did I come from? Is my whole life just a stupid, madeup story? A sudden, ugly thought, alone in a lightless room in a strange land: Is that what the dream's about? That thing inside me, looking out through my eyes? Maybe I've got some kind of evil-fairy side and now it's starting to come out.
Mom said she couldn't love me the way she should have , he suddenly remembered. Because I didn't seem right. Wasn't that what she said? She knew.
She knew.
The power was still off when he finally fell asleep, a transition from one helpless darkness to another.
————— Daffodil Comb was in a barnlike structure underneath the main tower, a vast room that resembled a high school gymnasium. The power had come back but the overhead lights in the huge room were dim and there were enough small flying people in the air to make details hard to discern, so Theo could only guess at its original purpose.
Do these people even play sports? he wondered. Normal ones? It was depressing how little he knew about the world in which he was presently forced to live — and worse, how little he knew about these creatures who were apparently his own kind. He couldn't think about that just now, though — it was like his whole mind was an aching bruise. Easier to concentrate on things that didn't matter.
Poor, snobby Rufinus had said something about being on a fencing team — that was the reason he had thought himself capable of handling the hollow-men. He had been horribly wrong, of course. So this world had fencing, but what else? It was hard to imagine fairies playing field hockey or football. In fact, the ruling class seemed more like an entire nation of country club tennis pla
yers — much easier to picture them sipping drinks on the patio after a match, expensive sweaters draped across their shoulders, than getting into a sweaty half-court basketball game . . . "Hey, giant feet, you want tae watch where you're going," shrilled a thickly accented voice. "Or is that how you spend your days off, stravaigin' aboot and crushing innocent people?"
Theo froze and looked down. The floor was as alive with traffic as the air above him, tiny pixies and other small creatures filing in and out of the comb, scurrying across the floor to the propped outer doors of the room in long lines, like mice leaving Hamelin.
"Oh, sweet Jee . . ." He caught himself. "Sorry! Sorry. I didn't . . . step on anyone, did I?"
"No, but not because you're bluidy graceful or annythin'." Theo carefully got down on his knees. The creature standing in front of him was a little larger than Applecore, but a uniform gray-green and covered with bristling spikes; Theo couldn't help thinking he looked like some kind of mascot for the Artichoke Council. He was carrying a toolbox. Oh, my God, Theo suddenly thought. If Cumber's right, this guy's kind of a relative of mine — all these little bugs are. Closer to me than Mom, at least biologically. The thought was yet another in the category of too-big-and-too-strange; he simply couldn't do anything with it. "Hey, I really am sorry, man. I was . . . I'm new here."
The spiky little person stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Aye, it happens."
"Could you help me, maybe? I just need to find someone named Applecore. A sprite. Do you know her?" "No. Don't like 'em, either. Bluidy wingers think they rule the roost. Hang on." He put two fingers small as the points of sharpened pencils to his mouth and whistled, surprisingly loud — preet, preet, preet! Theo didn't know what he was supposed to say, so he didn't say anything.