If only young George had stuck to these guidelines.
Let’s hasten back to George’s story.
The downside of being a witness to this burp-and-fart-filled conversation soon became clear: George had to pinch his nose shut and breathe through his mouth. And just when he thought he would never breathe clean air again and that the dwarves would never go back to their harvest, they grabbed the edge of the fruit basket and dragged it away.
Cherries, thought George as he squinted at the fruit inside, but there was something odd about these cherries, the way they sounded in the basket. They sort of clack-clack-clacked, as though they were made out of glass.
Another dwarf struggled past George’s leaf pile with a full basket, and every few steps, his beard tangled with his feet and the basket lurched to one side, spilling cherries onto the mossy ground. George reached out from the leaf pile and grabbed one.
He turned it from side to side.
It was not a cherry.
It was a ruby.
The nose-picking, smelly dwarves of the Lincoln Tunnel were harvesting rubies.
Thousands of them, maybe even millions. And the one in George’s hand was a very big one, the size of a walnut, maybe even bigger.
And just looking at it made George think about grabbing a bunch of them, a sack if he could, a sack of pirate loot. And then he started thinking about how famous that big, fat sack of glistening, juicy rubies would make him. George, owner of the most mysterious and wondrous rubies the world had ever known. George, the richest boy on the planet. He could buy whatever he wanted. His parents would have to ask him for an allowance instead of the other way around. It would be too wonderful.
He reached out of the leaf pile and groped around on the ground for the rest of the fallen rubies and shoveled them into his shorts pockets. Then he rolled some up in his socks. But this wasn’t enough. George surveyed the scene from his roost. It would be hard to steal more: there were practically as many dwarves as there were rubies, and they didn’t look exactly friendly.
And that’s when he saw it.
Glinting, swaying gently, twisting lazily around on its stem: the biggest ruby of all, a big red apple of a ruby. And George suddenly wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his whole life.
Just then, a whistle blew across the forest, a strange melancholy sound like a ship in a foggy nighttime harbor.
All of the little men climbed down from the trees and yawned and stretched their arms. The silver bells stilled as the dwarves lay down and spread their dirty beards over their bellies like blankets.
Within a few seconds, they all fell asleep.
The only thing that dared to move in that under-river forest was the fat, ridiculous ruby: it rocked smugly on its branch.
George climbed out of the leaf pile and tiptoed past the snoring dwarves. Their sleep was a deep opium sleep: thousands of snores rumbled across the forest floor. Not one dwarf stirred as George crept along—not a flicker of an eye or a missed breath.
A ladder leaned against the fat ruby’s tree, and George quietly propped it up against the fat ruby’s branch. Up the rungs, quietly, carefully, knees wobbling a little from fear; then the fat ruby was within an arm’s length—and then George’s hand was just beneath it.
He plucked the ruby from the branch.
The little silver bell tied to the branch began to ring. George grabbed at it, but then the bells on the other branches started to chime. The chimes spread to the next tree, and then the next, and the one behind that, and soon every silver bell in the whole forest rang as though a five-alarm fire was happening.
George panicked and fell off the ladder. His arm made a sickening crunch and his hand went limp and out rolled the fat ruby; it looked very happy and satisfied to have been the cause of such a ruckus.
The dwarves suddenly opened their eyes and sat up as straight as chairs; a thousand fingers went into a thousand noses and suddenly George was being pelted with boogers as he grabbed the ruby and ran. By the time he reached the rabbit-hole tunnel, a revolting, gummy dwarf-booger crust covered George from head to toe.
Why aren’t any of them following me? he thought as he climbed back into the hole, a very painful process when one has a very broken arm.
Behind him, the tree bells rang more violently than ever, a storm of angry chimes; yet no footsteps followed George and no angry faces appeared in the entrance to the tunnel. George staggered up the dark tunnel hill and groped his way back along the walls.
I’m getting away with it, he thought jubilantly.
The booger-covered fat ruby glowed and nestled in the crook of his good arm like a puppy.
George’s shorts pockets suddenly felt heavier. At first George thought his imagination was playing a badly timed trick, but quickly he realized that his imagination wasn’t doing anything at all and that the rubies actually were weighing him down, trying to root him to the ground and trap him in the tunnel.
Maybe the dwarves weren’t letting him get away after all.
George unzipped his ruby-filled shorts and ran down the tunnel in his underwear. But then the rubies in his rolled-up boogery socks started acting up, growing heavy as croquet balls and then bowling balls and then anvils, until George could hardly lift his legs anymore. He took off his shoes and peeled off the socks and the rubies thudded to the floor. The dirt from the floor and ceiling stuck to the boogers all over his body.
A rectangular outline of fluorescent light shone in the dark ahead: the edges of the brass door leading back to the Lincoln Tunnel.
George began to run again, miserably expecting his prized ruby to clatter heavily to the ground. But instead the fat ruby nuzzled him and stayed curiously warm, strangely buoyant; it practically hummed to itself. George reached the rectangle of light and yanked the door open.
And there it was at last: real life, the real world—in all of its yellowed-tiled and exhaust-filled glory.
The door clattered shut behind him and horns honked angrily as George stumbled into the tunnel. The flash of red and blue lights nearly blinded him: a dozen police cars were parked around George’s car—which hadn’t budged an inch since he’d disappeared into the ruby forest.
George’s parents stood outside their car, clinging to each other.
“He just disappeared,” his mother sobbed. “We turned around and he was gone.”
“I’m right here!” George shouted, still gripping his prize, and he ran toward the car. Pretzel barked wildly when he saw him.
The policemen turned around.
“Get out of here,” said one of them, shoving him.
“Ow!” George yelled, pain shooting through his broken arm. “Are you crazy? I’m their kid! They’re looking for me! Mom! Dad!”
George’s parents looked over at him and their hostile, empty faces stopped George in his tracks. Then his mother’s face crumpled and she sobbed again. The policeman stepped forward again.
“I said beat it, you filthy, crazy old bum,” he hissed, raising his baton. “That’s a fine prank to play on a lady who’s just lost her son. If you’re not out of here in ten seconds, we’ll haul you down to the station as a kidnapping suspect.”
George was stunned. Old bum?
Then he caught a glimpse of himself in a car window and his heart nearly stopped.
Half an hour earlier, George had been nine years old. But according to that car window, now he was a gnarled old man, covered in dirt and grime, with a grungy tangle of hair and a matted beard and long fingernails.
He began to scream.
A few minutes later, he was in the back of a police car, cold handcuffs tight around his bony, still booger-covered wrists. The rearview mirror confirmed that George was still a dreadful old man, and he trembled with shock.
Then he realized that the ruby was no longer warming his hand. It had shrunk and turned cold.
George unfurled his fingers.
The fat ruby was gone.
In its place lay a scab-cov
ered dead mouse.
As my mother used to say: nothing good ever comes to those who steal, and that’s doubly true when it comes to stealing from fairies.
After hearing about George’s woeful tale, I set out to investigate this strange operation under the Hudson River myself. Through a little detective work, I learned that every Friday afternoon, one of the dwarves would take some of the harvested river rubies into the city to sell to a jewelry dealer named Mr. Gary Weinshank, a tall man with icy blue eyes and wild, curling white eyebrows. This dwarf would remain invisible to human eyes until he emerged from the tunnel and then cast a spell to make himself appear human while he did his weekly errand. Mr. Weinshank knew this strange little man as Peter C. Movaat.
Well, if you rearrange the letters in that name, you get the following Latin phrase:
CAVEAT EMPTOR
… which means “let the buyer beware.”
George had spotted this Mr. Movaat returning from two such business trips, and the boy’s fairy sight allowed him to see through the dwarf’s disguise.
And that vile booger crust had transformed George into an old man on his trip back through the dwarves’ secret tunnel.
The exact door that led George to the ruby forest has been sealed up long ago, no doubt by the Harvesters themselves. Mr. Weinshank claims that Mr. Movaat recently disappeared and that they no longer have business dealings together, although I suspect that Mr. Weinshank is simply protecting his lucrative source of rubies. The Harvester dwarves of the Lincoln Tunnel must still be there, under the river, growing fat rubies and selling them in the real world.
But until I can locate the new door to their fantastical little kingdom, I cannot prove it.
The Difference Between Dwarves and Trolls
It’s no surprise that these two species are often confused: both are generally short and gnarled and ugly, and associated with underground habitats.
Dwarves get very sniffy when mistaken for trolls, and who can blame them? For the most part, dwarves are industrious, harmless creatures (unless they are harassed or stolen from), whereas trolls are always up to no good. They are professional ne’er-do-wells.
If you come across a dwarf or troll-like creature and can’t figure out which one it is, here’s a good rule of thumb: if your encounter takes place near a bridge, you’ve likely met a troll. That’s where they usually make their homes; they sit around underneath their bridge of choice and complain about overhead traffic, drafts, and graffiti. Trolls happen to be terrific complainers and grumblers.
But if you happen to be near a mountain or a hill or someplace with an underground passage, like a tunnel, the creature is likely a dwarf, since—as you know—dwarves mine or harvest in these areas.
I cannot emphasize enough how dangerous trolls can be: they weave strong spells and are well-known thieves and kidnappers. Worst of all: sometimes they eat children. The lucky few who manage to escape the clutches of trolls often hear voices for the rest of their lives or are plagued by a tiredness so heavy that they cannot get out of bed.
If you live near a bridge and suspect the presence of trolls, there are certain precautions you can take. Carry a mirror with you at all times. Trolls hate seeing their reflections; it depresses them to see how ugly they are. They’ll go well out of their way to avoid a mirror.
Not many people know this, but if you take a bite of peanut butter before you cross a bridge, no troll will ever bother you. They detest the smell of it. It absolutely nauseates them.
One further note: don’t leave your dogs tethered outside alone for long periods. While trolls may despise humans, they love dogs and won’t hesitate to take yours as a pet.
Money in the Fairy World
Every fairy breed has its own currency.
Amusingly, one branch of the brownie family uses coffee beans as money, and so they’re very happy that there are Starbucks and other coffee shops on practically every city and town corner these days.
Goblins barter fruits; blood oranges, star fruit, and pomegranates are worth the most, while regular apples and bananas are like pennies and nickels.
Trolls use animal bones; the bigger the animal, the more the bone is worth, and they especially prize femurs. These nasty creatures often make midnight runs to their “banks”: the garbage bins behind butcher shops—and graveyards. You should be warned that trolls value the bones of children above all.
As you’ve just seen in Tale No. 3, dwarves deal in cold, hard cash, since they occasionally have secret business dealings with humans.
On that note, fairies have actually extensively influenced how human money has been made and used over the centuries. For example, many years ago, east coast Native Americans used a thick white shell called wampum as money. What most people don’t know: wampum was introduced to the tribes by the Wampum fairies, who cast spells on the shells to edge them with bright splashes of purple. The fairies traded these magically altered shells to the natives for corn silk and other harvested goods, and soon the native tribes began to trade the shells among themselves.
Did you ever wonder why American dollar bills are green? Long ago, a rural tribe of fairies used mint leaves as money, which gave one of their human neighbors (who just happened to be an important designer of America’s paper money) the idea to make paper bills out of a pale green paper.
One last note: don’t forget that money in America is made at the U.S. Mint. See the connection?
Why You Shouldn’t Trust
Fairy Godmothers
In people’s minds, money and fame often go together. I’m sure that you’ve heard many times about so-called fairy godmothers, who drift about, granting wishes to humans who crave both treasure and acclaim.
Such happiness-spreading creatures are nonsense, although one diabolical type of fairy likes to take advantage of the human tendency to always wish for what one doesn’t have. Known as the Crone fairies, this repulsive, wizened tribe of female-only creatures can literally smell human yearning from up to five miles away. When approaching her victim, the Crone casts a spell to make herself appear as a silver-tressed, beautiful old woman with kind eyes and a soft mouth.
The Crone approaches the human and offers to grant a wish. She then tells the person to place his hand in hers as he makes the wish. Now things get ugly. The moment a human touches a Crone’s hand, that person’s wish is granted instead to his worst enemy. So, if a young boy wishes to become rich and famous, suddenly his rival will land a record deal or some such, leaving the boy on the sidelines to watch helplessly.
An important note: the Crone fairies tend to hang around magazine stands, since the Crones believe that the sort of people who read tons of magazines tend to have very big (and often unrealistic) dreams. So be on guard around such venues.
Incidentally, neither money nor wishes can buy fame; only talent, hard work, and a little bit of luck will make you famous. And in any case, as you will see in the next tale, the unrelenting quest for fame can have some very nasty results.
Tale No. 4
Unlikely Performances
at Carnegie Hall
This story is about one of my favorite fairy breeds: the Librettos.
“Libretto” is a musical term, and the winged Libretto fairies are indeed very linked to music. In fact, they dwell inside musical instruments (especially those made of wood, since, as you now know, many fairies have strong associations with trees); the disposition of the fairy that lives inside a violin determines whether its music sounds sweet or shrill.
A libretto is simply a book containing words of an opera. The minuscule Libretto fairies got this curious name because they often hide inside books of music. Entirely black-and-white, they camouflage themselves by rolling up and hiding in the dots of musical notes on paper, fooling even the most astute fairy spotters like myself.
Libretto fairies cannot abide bad music; in fact, they often appoint themselves guardians of musical standards, even though no one ever officially asks for their opinion. So, if yo
u are a flute player or some such and you just happen to blow a bad note around them—watch out. Librettos specialize in sharp little pinches, and sometimes they do far worse things, as you’ll soon see. You’ll rarely find them in schools, since they simply cannot stand the sound of an amateur orchestra—but a Libretto colony lives in nearly every major concert ball around the world.
Which brings us to the setting of this story: Carnegie Hall, a fine, venerable concert hall that has stood on West 57th Street in Midtown Manhattan for more than a hundred years.
One autumn evening, about a year ago, Carnegie Hall was being prepared for a piano concert of great importance.
Workers rushed about, dusting off lightbulbs, swiping the seats with stiff-bristled brushes, neatening stacks of paper programs. A magnificent black grand piano was wheeled out onto the stage, where it gleamed under the spotlights like a highly polished gun. Microphones were tapped, and the nervous stage manager straightened his bow tie over and over again.
Baba Hudu was about to arrive.
Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Baba Hudu! He is only one of the most famous pianists in the world, and he has quite a distinctive look. A very heavy beard and mustache run wild across the bottom of his face, and a thick carpet of black hair springs from the crown of his head. This is between you and me, but frankly I never understood how Baba Hudu’s hair stays so dark and bushy; after all, he must be about four hundred years old by now.
Here’s an interesting fact about Baba Hudu: he always looks so bored when he plays that sometimes you wonder if he’s actually dead and find yourself peering up into the stage’s ceiling to see if long strings are operating his arms. But he’s not dead at all; he actually is as bored as he looks. After all, he considers himself to be the long-reigning master of his instrument, with nary a tune or a composer left in the world to challenge him, and audiences are just lucky to pay to hear him play. Or so he thinks.
Modern Fairies, Dwarves, Goblins, and Other Nasties Page 5