by Peter David
“But what of the children!” Gwenny cried.
“I’m giving custody of them to Davy Jones’s locker,” The Boy said, and brought the sparking flame down toward the fuse.
Chapter 7
Straight On Until Morning
Flying came far more easily to Paul than he would have thought possible. Part of that may have stemmed, however, from his conviction that he would be able to fly. That’s all it takes, really. Pixie dust facilitates it, to be sure; for science can be a harsh and pesky mistress, and it has a love affair with gravity that cannot be ignored. A little magic, however, will counter even the most stubborn science any day; and so the magic that comes from sprinkling pixie dust is a handy ingredient in making something as difficult to swallow as self-aviation go down far more easily. Think of pixie dust as flight’s answer to a spoonful of sugar aiding the swallowing of medicine, and you will understand more fully.
Paul did not need to understand. Paul believed, and that was all that was required.
It was but the work of minutes to leave the spires of London behind and fly in the direction of the third star. Soon he and Fiddlefix were out over the ocean, the waves chopping beneath, licking up as if hoping that they would be able to bring the fliers down. Paul considered it most strange. In some ways, it seemed as if he were truly awake for the first time in his life. In that awakening, he discovered that the world was far more “real” than he had once thought. Shadows seemed to watch him with excessive interest; the branches of trees leaned toward him as if to try and pick up passing comments he might make. Now, over the vast waters that lay between England and the Anyplace, it seemed as if the very ocean had come to life and was displaying untoward curiosity about him. He had never considered the notion that the earth around him might be alive and thinking. Paul had to admit it did make a strange kind of sense. It nicely explained earthquakes, storms—all manner of disasters. It was simply that sometimes the world was in a good mood and sometimes far less so. The people who resided upon it simply had to tolerate it, the same way that fleas were required to put up with whatever was going through a dog’s head on any given day.
Still and all, Paul was not thrilled with the way the ocean was looking at him, and he made certain to stay sufficiently high above it.
This was not always easy, because the flight was a long one and every so often Paul would start to fall asleep and drift toward the water. Fortunately the divine Miss Fix was alert and attentive to her subject. When she heard him beginning to snore or noticed a decaying trajectory, she would buzz over to his ear and chime at him loudly enough to startle him awake. At one point Fiddle had gotten too far ahead of him and barely managed to get back in time as a shark lunged from the water, snapped viciously, and narrowly missed taking off Paul’s leg before Paul was rousted from his light slumber in time to angle away from it. The shark splashed back down into the water and watched him fly away with its dark, soulless eyes.
As Paul drew alongside Fiddlefix once more, he started talking with her to make certain that he didn’t fall asleep again. “You said The Boy had a low opinion of mothers. Why?”
“Don’t you know?” Fiddle asked.
“No,” Paul said, sounding reasonable about it. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Well…The Boy made the mistake of trusting his mother long ago.”
“Trusting mothers is a mistake?” Paul said. He was rather uncomfortable with that notion. Despite the difficulties he’d had with his own mother recently, he still at core wanted to believe that mothers could be counted on in general.
“It was in The Boy’s case, at least,” said Fiddlefix. “You see, when he fled to Kensington Gardens, he always thought that he could return at his leisure and that the window to his nursery would always be open. When he finally did return, however…” She sighed heavily, causing a mourning bell-like peal that sounded almost funereal rather than her usually far lighter tone.
“However what?” said Paul urgently.
“He found that the window had been locked to keep him out. Not only that but his mother was sitting there, cradling a new child. He had been replaced.”
“Replaced?”
“Yes.” With great sarcasm she said, “A new horse had been fitted with a bridle to take up the reins of receiving a mother’s love.” Then she lowered her voice and continued soulfully, “I think that’s why he was so interested in that annoying Gwenny. He believes he’s entitled to his share of a mother’s love, and isn’t all that particular about the mother it comes from. I mean, obviously he’s not particular, if he was willing to receive it from the Gwenny.”
“So he doesn’t like mothers in general…but wants the love of one just the same. That seems mixed up.”
“He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know what’s good for him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well,” she said as if it should be painfully obvious, “he didn’t want me, did he?”
“Want you to be his mother, you mean?”
Fiddlefix flipped over so that she was on her back, flying and looking at him with a combination of amusement and annoyance. “You silly ass,” she said after a time, and flew on ahead of him. It was all that Paul could do to keep up with her after that, and she seemed uninterested in talking about The Boy any further.
More time passed, and more, and Paul felt fear creeping into him. He had come this far on faith; but the water stretched on and on in all directions without letup, the night seemed endless, and his home was ever so far away. Who was to say that Fiddlefix wouldn’t become bored with him, or impatient, or simply abandon him? He would never be able to find his way home again. Sooner or later he would lose his focus; fall asleep; and, for all he knew, that shark was continuing to follow him, angry over having lost its opportunity and anxious for another chance.
He rubbed furiously at his eyes lest they tire and betray him, and when he lowered his hands, he was surprised and gratified to see sunlight creeping up over the horizon.
“Morning,” he whispered.
The morning came up literally like thunder, for Paul heard a distant booming sound that he thought to be thunder…although it was, in fact, cannon fire. For that matter, the thunderous noise barely registered on him, for he was far too captivated with the land that was spread out before him. If one has ever looked at a globe, one has seen imaginary lines of longitude and latitude crisscrossing it. In the case of the Anyplace, the lines themselves were visible, giving the waters around it a checkerboard appearance. There were also large arrows pointing from four different directions, like a vast compass, all aimed directly at the Anyplace so that any passing fancies would be able to find it with minimal difficulty.
Paul recognized the land immediately, even though he had never actually seen it with his waking eyes. It may sound odd that one would be able to identify instantly something he had never seen as if he had always known it. The very notion makes no sense. The fact that it makes no sense should tell you that it is true. Truth usually makes no sense. If your desire is for everything to make perfect sense, then you should take refuge in fiction. In fiction, all threads tie together in a neat bow and everything moves smoothly from one point to the next to the next. In real life, though, in real life…nothing makes sense. Bad things happen to good people. The pious die young while the wicked live until old age. War, famine, pestilence, death all occur randomly and senselessly and leave us more often than not scratching our heads and hurling the question why? into a void that provides no answers.
So if everything in your life makes perfect sense, then make no sudden moves and do not allow anyone to pinch you, for you are likely dreaming and you would not want to spoil it.
Headlong into the unreal reality of the Anyplace did Paul Dear fly. He gazed in awe at the island where all four seasons transpired simultaneously in different sections. He wondered if they remained in their relative climatic states all the time, or if the seasons rotated so that each part of the
island was visited by snow, sunshine, and falling leaves at alternate times. Paul wanted to ask Fiddlefix about it, but the pixie was suddenly buzzing around his head. There was excitement in her voice but not the pleasant kind. Instead it was the sort of thrill that one possessed when one was eagerly anticipating revenge most dire upon someone who had done one wrong. “He’s there!” said the splendidly angry Miss Fix.
“He? You mean The Boy?”
“Who else?” Fiddle said. “There’s no one else in the entirety of the Anyplace who matters.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“And now we’re here, and you can help me get my revenge.”
Although talk of revenge was all well and good when the Anyplace had been something in the abstract, being discussed in the security of his bedroom, now that Paul had arrived, the impending reality of the situation was beginning to drape its uneasy cloak around him. “How, exactly, are we going to go about getting it?” he said.
“It? You mean revenge?”
Paul nodded.
Fiddle floated in front of his face, her fluttering wings keeping her moving backward even as Paul angled toward the Anyplace. “You’ll kill him for me, obviously.”
Paul stopped in midair. “Kill him?”
Not realizing that Paul had ceased his forward motion, Fiddle fluttered several yards away from him before darting back toward him, a frown on her tiny face. “Of course. Why, what else did you think?”
“I don’t know!” Paul said. He was starting to drift toward the water without realizing it. “I thought we’d…taunt him or something.”
“Taunt him.” Fiddlefix sounded less than enthused. “He wishes me to death and you think the appropriate response is a severe taunting? You silly ass.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Then stop being it!” Fiddle said, who really was a most rude little thing.
“Why don’t you kill him, if you’re so upset with him? I was coming here in hopes he could find me a new baby sister. You’re the one who apparently wants to see him toes up. What do you need me for, if blood is all you desire?”
“Because I can’t kill him,” Fiddle said impatiently. “Pixies don’t kill. It’s not allowed. If I could kill, I wouldn’t have needed the Vagabonds to try to rid me of the Gwenny.”
“Why isn’t it allowed?”
“Because it’s wrong.”
“But then if it’s wrong, why do you want me to do it?”
“Why should I care if you’re doing something wrong?”
“But if you’re encouraging me to do it,” Paul said in exasperation, “then that’s practically the same as you doing it yourself!”
“Practically isn’t the same as exactly. By the way, you’re about to be eaten.”
“What…?”
So involved in his discussion with Fiddlefix had Paul been that he had drifted too close to the ocean. The soles of his feet were dangling directly above a couple of sharks, patiently waiting with their mouths open. With a yelp, Paul immediately rebounded heavenward while Fiddlefix flew in a circle around him, laughing in that ringing way she had. Under other circumstances he might have found it charming, but these were not those circumstances.
“You could have warned me!”
“I did,” she pointed out when she stopped laughing.
Before Paul could respond, there was another resounding noise, and this time Paul recognized it for what it was. “Was that…a cannon?” he said.
“Pirates,” Fiddle said with rising excitement in her voice. “Where there’s pirates, The Boy will undoubtedly be. Come on.” When Paul hesitated, she tugged him firmly by the front of his shirt with even greater strength than he would have credited her with. He could not be certain, but it seemed that the light she generated was growing brighter the closer she drew to the Anyplace.
“But…when we find him—am I still supposed to…?”
“We’ll sort it out,” Fiddle said, brimming with a confidence that Paul did not feel.
He gave up trying to direct the path of his flight, for Fiddle was hauling him along like a child dragging a pull toy on a string. They angled around and down; and, sure enough, there was a pirate ship floating offshore. Paul felt an undeniable thrill, witnessing firsthand the sort of thing that had previously been confined to books or motion pictures: an actual, genuine pirate ship, sails fluttering in the breeze, smoke rising from the recently discharged large guns pointing over the side.
Fiddle’s bell-like language chimed in his ear, and even though she sounded as musical as always, he could discern the shock in her voice. “It’s The Boy at the guns,” she breathed. “He’s firing at the Gwenny. I—I thought he…”
“You thought he what?”
“I thought,” said Fiddle, “that he…some part of me thought he wanted me gone because he desired only the Gwenny. But if he wants her dead as well…”
Paul thought she actually sounded quite cheerful at the prospect, but he chose not to comment upon it since he considered it rude. Far more rude, though, was the prospect of the heroic Boy aiming and firing upon a helpless raft filled with youngsters not all that different in age from Paul himself.
He had been daunted at the prospect of taking arms against The Boy, but Paul was—above all—a young English gentleman. The lad who was daunted by the undertaking presented to him immediately gave way to the bristling, offended sensibilities of a young Englishman witnessing a lopsided battle.
“Right!” Paul said, and angled downward like a missile.
No one had taken notice of him, for they were all focused upon The Boy’s target and even more particularly on his apparent inability to hit it. One of the pirates was shouting at him in bewilderment, “Captain, they’re right there! How can you continue to miss them?”
“If I sink them with the first shot, the game is over!” The Boy said, sounding defensive. More than that: There was a strain in his voice, as if he were being subjected to some great inner struggle. “Who is captain here, anyway?”
An elderly lady stepped forward and, snatching the match from The Boy’s hand, lit the fuse. “You are so right, my dear one. And because you’re the captain, you shouldn’t be bothering yourself with this!” She cranked the gun, angling it, as the fuse burned down. “I’ll attend to it.”
The fuse was nearly to the powder, and the children on the raft were madly paddling, trying to get out of range, knowing they would fail. At that moment, before disaster could befall, Paul dropped from on high, feetfirst, driving them into the muzzle. The cannon angled sharply downward and discharged a heartbeat later. The cannonball blasted into the water not five feet from the raft, and the resulting gout of water came close to swamping the small craft. It did not quite succeed, and the passengers coughed and sputtered but managed to hold on.
“Who are you!?” said the old lady.
“Who cares?” said The Boy before Paul could answer, and shoved down as hard as he could on the rear of the cannon. The abrupt movement catapulted Paul high through the air. He soared with the weightless grace of one upon whom gravity had only limited sway, and that agility was not lost upon The Boy even as Paul landed in the rigging above. “You’ve been taught to fly!” The Boy said, pointing in an accusatory fashion. “Who taught you thus?”
Unsure whether he should reveal Fiddle’s presence to her would-be murderer, Paul said, “You did!”
“I did not!” Then The Boy paused, for he was well aware that his memory was not always the most reliable. “Did I?”
“Did you?” said one of the pirates.
The Boy shrugged. “I might have done. If I did, what of it?” He studied Paul with a cocked eyebrow. “He seems familiar, now that it’s mentioned.”
“You spoke to me through a mirror,” Paul reminded him from above. “You told me to catch you if I could.”
“Then do so!” The Boy said defiantly. He thrust out a hand and shouted, “Sword!” Seconds later, a pirate cutlass had been thrust into his left hand. W
ith his right hand, he yanked out his own sword and, quick as the wind, hurtled heavenward toward Paul. He tossed the cutlass with an easy motion toward Paul. It spun end over end, and Paul flinched back from it, prompting a derisive laugh from The Boy. The sword lodged in the rigging just over Paul’s head. “Best have it, my lad,” The Boy warned him, “before I have you!”
Paul grabbed the cutlass. He’d been worried that it would be too heavy, but it felt light enough for him to wield as he swept it back and forth through the air.
“Boy!” It was Gwenny’s voice, floating to him from the water. “Don’t hurt him!”
“Are you Gwenny’s new husband now?” The Boy said. He floated back and forth before Paul like a pendulum, and Paul was sore afraid but determined. “Is that the way of it?”
“I’m just someone who wants to make my mother happy,” said Paul, trying to keep his sword steady. It seemed his arm trembled more and more violently even as he worked to steady it. “And I don’t like bullies, which is what you’ve become. So I’m here to stop you!”
This prompted a chorus of derisive laughter from below.
“Then your efforts are doomed to fail,” The Boy said darkly, “as are you. You cannot defeat me.”
“Yes, I can. For I am the hero, and you’ve become a villain, and my father told me that heroes always win.”
More laughter from the pirates, and choruses of “Oooo, his daddy told him that,” and more cries and pleading from the young people on the raft. The Boy’s eyes narrowed, and he no longer looked amused or even youthful. A terrible aura hung around him like a shroud, and he said, “Proud and insolent youth, prepare to meet thy doom.”
“Dark and sinister Boy,” Paul said, “have at thee!”
Mustering all his courage, Paul threw himself off the rigging and came straight at The Boy. The Boy looked surprised for a moment, and barely brought his sword up in time. The blades clashed, and Paul kept to the attack. The swords clanged and crashed, sparks flying from the metal; and for every move that The Boy made to subdue Paul, Paul was a hair quicker, a shade faster.