The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen

by Delia Sherman

  Danskin looked thoughtful. “How about a black burlap bag with a hat on top?”

  “I want them to die screaming, not laughing,” Stonewall said.

  I gave up trying to deduce what was going on. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Espresso’s green eyes went round. “Hallowe’en, man. You dig? Costume competition, haunted house?” I shook my head. “How about trick or treat?”

  “There aren’t any treats on Hallowe’en where I come from,” I said shortly. “In the Park, the ghosts get solid and the ghouls get frisky. You don’t even want to know what the Hunt does.”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Shut up, Fortran.” Stonewall turned to me. “So what do you do?”

  “Astris invites some friends in and we tell stories.”

  “Boring,” Fortran said, then winced. “Ow, Espresso, that hurt! I’m sorry, Neef, but it doesn’t sound like a lot of fun.”

  “It’s not supposed to be fun,” I said. “It’s supposed to be comforting.”

  Espresso’s face took on her poetry-reciting look. “ ‘From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, good spirits deliver us.’ ”

  “At Miss Van Loon’s,” Stonewall said, “we have a different philosophy. Hallowe’en is the bash of the year. We stay up all night and there’s a day off afterward.”

  “And that helps how?” I asked.

  “Well, Folk hate being laughed at. We wear scary costumes and eat too much sugar and play games and scream a lot, but it’s all a big joke. And the Folk know it, too.”

  Danskin laughed. “Either that, or they’re more scared of us than we are of them.”

  “We don’t bother with any of that at Columbia University,” Fortran announced. “We’re too sophisticated.” Everybody looked at him. “Okay, we do costumes. But only because it’s fun. I always have the best costume. This year, I’m going to be a monkey warrior.” He paused. “Or maybe an evil wizard. I haven’t decided yet.”

  Mukuti bounced happily. “Last year I was a demon, with big tusks and everything. Nobody even knew it was me.”

  “And that’s Hallowe’en?” I asked. “A bunch of kids running around dressed up like Folk?”

  “Scary Folk,” Danskin reminded me. “And there are special rituals. Tricks and games and stuff. The Big Book of Rules takes a real beating sometimes.”

  Light dawned. “I get it!” I said. “Hallowe’en is for getting even. Did you guys challenge anyone?”

  Everybody got very quiet. I looked around the ring of startled faces. “No challenges? But Tiffany said . . . ”

  “Tiffany?” Danskin asked blankly.

  “Yeah. She challenged me to summon Bloody Mary with her. At Hallowe’en. In the girls’ bathroom.”

  Espresso laughed doubtfully. “You’re busting our chops, right?”

  “No-o.”

  Stonewall said, “You seem awfully calm about this. Do you actually know who you’re dealing with?”

  “I’m not calm. I’m mad. And I already know Tiffany’s evil.”

  “Not Tiffany,” Danskin said seriously. “The other one.”

  I wasn’t about to admit there was a supernatural somewhere I’d never heard of. “What’s to know? She’s called Mary and she’s all bloody. Standard-issue bogeywoman. No biggie.”

  Espresso shook her head. “Either you’re the Girl Who Didn’t Know What Fear Was, or you’re out of your ever-loving mind. Possibly both.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Tell me about Bl—”

  Espresso’s hand clamped over my mouth. “Don’t! Just don’t.”

  I wiggled my eyebrows to show I wouldn’t. Espresso withdrew her hand. “What’s with you guys?”

  “We don’t want to take any chances,” Stonewall explained. “Saying her name might call her up. She usually appears in mirrors, but lots of things reflect. Liquids, picture glass.” He glanced up at the bowling dwarfs.

  “The changelings from Spanish Harlem call her the Angry One,” Mukuti said helpfully.

  “Okay, tell me about the Angry One.”

  Everybody leaned in real close and whispered at me, more or less at once.

  “She’s a nightmare.”

  “She comes out of the mirror and rips your face off.”

  “She scratches you with her long claws.”

  “She kills you dead.”

  Most bogeys just hide under your bed and moan. My stomach felt cold. “Why summon her, then?”

  Stonewall sat back. “She’s supposed to show you your future, if you stay alive long enough to ask.”

  “If she even shows up in the first place,” Danskin added. “She’s not exactly predictable.”

  I took a mouthful of dirty milk and examined my choices. If I backed out of Tiffany’s challenge, I’d be safe. And Tiffany would have some new names to call me, like “coward” and “dealbreaker.” I’d rather risk having my face ripped off. Especially since I didn’t think it would really happen. If Tiffany thought she could handle this Bloody Angry Mary person, then I could, too.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Fine what?” Danskin asked. “Fine you’re going to tell her you changed your mind?”

  “Fine, I’m going through with it. If I don’t go through with it, Tiffany will get even more unbearable than she already is.”

  Chapter 7

  RULE 653: STUDENTS MUST NOT INVOLVE THEMSELVES IN INTER-FOLK CONFLICTS WITHOUT A TUTOR’S SUPERVISION.

  Miss Van Loon’s Big Book of Rules

  “Well, you certainly can’t wear it to the Equinox Reel.”

  Astris smoothed the skirt of my spidersilk dress. It was ripped where I’d caught it on a branch falling out of the mulberry tree that morning.

  “I thought spidersilk was the strongest cloth there is,” I complained.

  “It was made with summer magic,” Astris said. “The strength’s gone out of it.”

  I fingered the soft material sadly. The dress had survived all the wear and tear of a magical quest without so much as a rip or a wrinkle. Now, one lousy tumble off a not-very-high branch and the skirt was in shreds. Plus, the spidersilk had lost its glow and the leaves and flowers woven into it had turned brown and brittle.

  “Don’t worry,” Astris said soothingly. “A fairy godmother can always come up with something to wear to a dance—it’s what we do, after all.”

  I ran upstairs, changed into jeans, and ran down again, expecting a ball gown. What I got was dinner. While I was eating roast chicken, mushroom pie, and peas from Satchel, Astris nibbled cheese and told me about her afternoon boating with Mr. Rat. Just as I was about to burst with impatience, she handed me a silver walnut.

  “Oh, wow, Astris. A Dress Silver as the Moon!”

  Astris’s whiskers twitched. “I found that walnut at the back of a drawer. Judging from the state it was in, it’s been there a lot longer than a year and a day. There might be nothing inside but dust.”

  The nut didn’t so much crack as disintegrate. One minute, I was holding a nut; the next my hands and arms were overflowing with fabric, heavy, slippery, and cold.

  “Well, it’s not dust, at any rate,” Astris said.

  The dress was a kind of dull iridescent pewter color with black streaks, and it smelled sharp and acrid. “It’s more like a Dress Gray as Rain.”

  “Once something magical tarnishes, it’s never quite the same,” Astris said. “Do you want to try it on?”

  We struggled with the mass of slithery fabric, looking for the top and the sleeves and then fitting me into them. The dress rustled and sighed, stretching and shrinking so it would fit me. When it was still, I spun around. The skirt belled out, then slapped heavily shut around my legs.

  “Well?” I asked anxiously. “How do I look?”

  “It’s a dress fit for a debutante,” Astris said truthfully, but her whiskers looked amused.

  Convinced I looked like a complete troll, I gathered the heavy skirts and ran up the stairs to the lan
ding mirror. My face was framed by two tarnished silver rolls sticking up from my shoulders like sugared doughnuts. The top was cut square right across the middle of my chest and fit like it had been painted on. I smoothed my hands down my silver skirt and shook the liquid folds cautiously. They let out a clear, tinkling chime and a metallic tang of tarnish.

  I sucked in my stomach and ran my fingers through my hair. It sprang up again, wild as ever. Then I noticed something.

  “Hey, Astris,” I shouted. “I have a shape!”

  Astris scurried up the steps, grabbed the neck of the dress, and tugged it sharply upward. The magic cloth obediently expanded to reach my collarbone. Then she patted the sleeves into a soft fluff, tore a strip off the hem, and tied it around my head with a bow over one ear.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Come along now. We don’t want to be late.”

  It was almost full dark when Astris and I took our places in the dance, with just a blush of deep blue in the west to remember the day by. At the center of the field, the Lady was a blaze of ruby and deep gold in a dress that fluttered like falling leaves around her bare brown arms and legs.

  In the dance of the year, the Spring and Autumn Equinoxes are points of perfect balance. The Folk dance a reel around and around the Park, stepping—or floating, or slithering—behind each other. The trees fiddle on twigs and boughs; the rocks pound time; the grasses rustle. On a clear night, with the windows around the Park twinkling and the stars burning overhead, I can almost feel the world turning under my feet.

  The music began. The Lady led and the Park Folk followed her, skipping and swaying over the grass. I closed my eyes and danced with them. Eventually, I’d get tired and drop out. But right now, I felt like I could dance forever.

  Suddenly, the music faltered. My feet went on a few steps by themselves before stumbling over Astris, who squealed unhappily. Something was horribly wrong.

  I wadded up my skirt and scrambled up the nearest tree.

  The Folk milled aimlessly around Central Park Central, dazed and bewildered, bumping into each other, still half entranced. I climbed a little higher. In the center of the field I saw a clear space, and it in, the Lady, her arms crossed, her head thrown back, her crown of leaves blazing on the woven coils of her hair.

  She was face-to-face with a mortal.

  He stood out against the Folk like a boulder in a flower garden. He moved, and starlight glittered from the silver safety pins on his shiny black vest. I’d seen vests like that last summer on my quest. They were the official uniform of the merguards at the Court of the Mermaid Queen of New York Harbor.

  My heart and hands were suddenly as cold as my moon-silver skirt.

  The mortal bowed. “My Lady Genius of Central Park,” he shouted, loud and deep. “I am the Voice of the Mermaid Queen of New York Harbor. On this day of balance between light and dark, my mistress sends you greetings.”

  The Lady’s hair burst angrily from its neat coil, scattering her crown of leaves. “I’ll just bet she does, buster. Let’s cut to the chase here. I’m not giving up the Magic Magnifying Mirror. My champion won it fair and square. You can tell old Fish Breath, from me, that she can put that in her water pipe and smoke it.”

  By now, the Park Folk were listening intently. Those who had hands applauded.

  The Voice of the Mermaid Queen ignored them. “My Lady Queen foresaw your answer. And she bade me say this: The Magnifying Mirror is part of New York Harbor, just as the trees and water and grass and stones are part of Central Park. It was given to her by the first mortal changeling at the Council of Inwood, and it cannot be taken from her without upsetting the balance of power. You must return it.”

  The Green Lady’s hair writhed around her head. “Must, Fish Boy?”

  “My Lady Queen,” the Voice went on, “says this: Return the mirror by the Winter Solstice or she will flood all the waters of the Park with salt.”

  Now would be the time, I knew, for the champion of Central Park (namely, me) to jump in and save the day. Except I couldn’t think of any way of saving it. The Diplomat’s lessons on negotiating treaties and making conversation flashed through my brain, offering not a single useful clue. If there was a lesson about preventing a disaster, we hadn’t got to it yet.

  “Winter Solstice, huh?” The Lady’s voice was thoughtful. “Okay. Here’s the deal. You tell Her Fishyness I’ll get back to her. I’m not making any promises here, but I’ll think about it. Now, get lost.”

  The Voice of the Mermaid Queen bowed and walked away.

  The Lady clapped her hands. “Dance time! Come on, you guys, whatcha waiting for? Solstice?”

  Nobody moved.

  “What a bunch of chumps! Look at you, scared of a stupid mortal that smells like three-day-old fish! Old Lady Fish Breath can’t make salt from seawater, let alone turn the Reservoir and all the lakes and ponds into brine. She’s talking through her hat.”

  A low murmur of doubt and rebellion swept through the Folk, rising into panic. I clung to my branch. Then a couple of nixies surged forward, weedy hair streaming in distress, and begged the Lady to save them. That did it. Naiads wept, water-horses whinnied, and vodyanoi croaked nervously. Above the hubbub, I heard a banshee shrieking that she’d never get her bloody linen clean if she had to wash it in salt water.

  “Shaddup!” the Lady screamed. “Am I or am I not the Genius of Central Park? Would I let anything bad happen to our water? Fuggedaboutdit!”

  Slowly, the tumult faded. The nixies and naiads backed off; the water-horses pawed the ground uncertainly. The Lady’s hair settled back on her shoulders. “That’s better,” she said. “Now. Let’s have a little music here!”

  The trees began to play, raggedly at first, then more enthusiastically. I wasn’t surprised when the Folk started to dance. Folk are Folk. They do what they do. When they see gold, they have to take it. When you make a wish, they have to grant it. When music plays, they have to dance until the dance is done.

  Not me. I’m mortal. I can’t dance all night without stopping. And I can’t dance if I don’t feel like it.

  I climbed down from the tree, careful not to get tangled in my skirt. Then I collapsed on the nearest rock, put my spinning head in my hands, and tried to think.

  I’d hardly started when the Pooka appeared in front of me in his man shape. His long black hair was braided in a thick tail between his shoulders, his eyebrows looked like they were about to fly off his forehead, and his narrow eyes shone a bright, wicked yellow.

  “You’re not dancing!” he cried. “Is it waiting for your old fairy godfather you are?”

  “Go away, Pooka. I don’t want to dance.”

  “Don’t want to dance? Are you stone mad? Why should you not want to dance, for all love?”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  He quirked a flying eyebrow at me. “It’s the Mermaid Queen, isn’t it, with her puffing and blowing threats here, there, and everywhere. Never mind her, my heart. She’ll not be salting the waters tonight. There’s plenty of time before Midwinter.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I still don’t feel like dancing.”

  He pulled me to my feet and toward the reel. I jerked away.

  “Stop it, Pooka. I’m worried, okay? The Water Folk are my friends. I don’t want them to get all salty and poisoned. Why doesn’t the Lady just give the Queen her mirror back? It’s not like she knows how to use it or anything.”

  “You’re right,” the Pooka said. “The Lady can no more make the mirror work for her than a brownie can fly to the moon.”

  “Then why not return it?”

  “She’s a Genius,” the Pooka said, “not a sheep. She may be led, but she won’t be driven.” He grinned. “Which is why you’re in school, learning the finer points of Genius-herding.”

  School, where Tiffany was Queen of the May and I was just a Wild Child slated to get her face scratched off on Hallowe’en night. I made a quick decision. “I’m quitting school, Pooka. Maybe I’ll go ba
ck later, after I’ve saved the Park.”

  The Pooka was amused. “And how will you be doing that thing?”

  This seemed obvious. “I’ll persuade the Lady to give the Mermaid Queen her mirror back, of course.”

  “The Lady’d throw you to the Hunt before you’d opened your mouth.”

  “Well, I’ll get the Mermaid Queen to back off.”

  “Have they taught you underwater breathing, then, in that school of yours?”

  I had one last idea. “I could go on a quest?”

  “Bah,” the Pooka said. “What kind of quest? For what? To where? Herne the Hunter help me, do you know nothing? No,” he went on before I could argue, “you’ll go to school tomorrow as always, bright and early in the morning, brushed and dressed and ready to learn. In the meantime, tonight is a dancing night, and dance you must, willing or no.”

  I knew I’d lost the argument, but at least I could have the last word. “Aha,” I said triumphantly. “I can’t go to school tomorrow. It’s a day off.”

  “All the more reason to dance tonight, then.” And the Pooka drew me into the reel.

  At dawn, the Pooka carried me up to the Castle. I slept all day, and when I woke up, it was dark out. Disoriented, I got up and tripped over a heap of cold slitheriness that smelled of tarnish.

  I remembered everything: the Dress Silver as the Moon, the Equinox Reel, the Voice of the Mermaid Queen. I remembered the threat to the Park. I remembered Miss Van Loon’s Hallowe’en Revels and Tiffany’s challenge.

  It looked like this fall was going to be even more full of adventures than last summer.

  Chapter 8

  RULE 3: STUDENTS MUST NEVER SPEAK OF WHAT HAPPENS INSIDE THE WALLS OF MISS VAN LOON’S TO ANY SUPERNATURAL BEING WHATSOEVER, INCLUDING THEIR FAIRY GODPARENTS.

  Miss Van Loon’s Big Book of Rules

  The first lesson the morning after Equinox Break was Talismans.

  When we were all seated, the Magic Tech said, “Today we’re going to talk about magic mirrors. Anybody here ever used one?”