Crimple dashed over to Tanger and threw his stiff, splintery arms around him. Tanger patted Crimple’s shoulder and grinned at Tim.
“And, young master,” Tanger said, “if you ever need someone to hide those glasses for you, you can count on me.”
Tim smiled. “Thanks. I’ll definitely keep you in mind.”
He watched the little fellows stroll back into their tree, and shook his head, unsure of what had happened. He just knew that it had been important somehow.
So you make a choice to believe in magic, he mused. And suddenly everything you’ve ever believed in matters. Everything you’ve ever done has consequences. Hanging a rag on a stick and calling it a Wobbly, for instance. “Sheesh,” he muttered. It was a lot of pressure.
Tim searched through the tall grass and found the original Wobbly he’d made so long ago, now much the worse for wear. Its rag head was shredded, and its stick body was bent and warped. He squatted down and studied it.
Should I take this out of the lot and bury it or something? he wondered. Would that unmake it? Or would it just change it—maybe release it in a new and more dangerous form? The Wobbly had certainly grown into something monstrous, though he wasn’t quite sure what kind of danger it posed.
Tim decided the safest thing to do was leave the original Wobbly where it was. I’d better mind my thoughts more closely, he realized. Who knows what wishes might come true, otherwise?
He began to slowly make his way out of the lot. There were a great deal of memories here.
When I was little I had to create imaginary friends and creatures to do the things I wanted to do. I needed the Wobbly to get rid of things for me. I needed Tanger and Crimple to let me be mad at someone or avoid what I didn’t want to do. Now I have to face things dead-on, don’t I?
Face things dead-on. “Oh no!” he cried. “I’m late to meet Molly!”
Chapter Three
Faerie
KING AUBERON OF FAERIE sat on a high-backed, richly upholstered chair. In front of him, sprites and Fair Folk danced on the lush green lawn, his splendid castle looming above them. His wife, Queen Titania, led them in a merry quadrille, her long hair bouncing as she frolicked. The lilting melodies plucked on lutes, the rhythms of the drums and sticks did not set his slippered feet to dancing. He watched lovely winged creatures flit in and out of the dappled shadows of twilight; teasing, laughing, offering any sort of pleasure. But he was not tempted. Not by the food, the drink, the women, the songs. Nothing.
He was unhappy. Titania had grown even more distant. He never would have imagined such indifference to be possible when they had first wed. But now everything that was between them was heavy with failed expectations and secrets. She had taken the death of her Falconer, Tamlin, hard, harder than a Queen should over a courtier. First she was wracked by sobs, then filled with rage, and now, the desperate, endless amusements. Auberon could no longer pretend; he recognized that her reaction was that of a lover losing her beloved.
Auberon felt an unusual pang. Could it be jealousy? He shook it off. Titania had had her diversions through the years; he certainly had had his. What was one more in a long line of favorites?
And yet her agony over Tamlin’s death made him wonder. Had there been something more…real between Titania and Tamlin than there was between Titania and himself? Would Titania have reacted this way if something had happened to him?
He observed the pretty scene before him, irritation prickling just beneath his blue skin. She held this fete as a way to distract herself from her loss. But her laughter had become shrill and forced; Auberon remembered a time when it had been soft and inviting.
He sighed. It no longer amused him, these glamours and pastimes of Faerie. King Auberon lifted his golden goblet and took a long drink. “Tasteless,” he murmured.
But what was there to do instead? How could he fill his time?
An idea came to him. He could leave this place altogether. Oh, not permanently. Just long enough to stir the blood. A change of scene would do him good.
Since the slaying of the manticore, the ways between the worlds had been opened again. More than a few of the Fair Folk had ventured to Earth, the world of humans. Those who returned spoke most convincingly of the sport offered in that old playground. The fact that some had not returned at all spoke more convincingly still. Why shouldn’t Auberon try something new? Perhaps he’d find what he was looking for in that other place—something to fill this emptiness, these endless days. Something for this heart that currently had no reason to beat other than to keep him alive.
Yes, Auberon thought, standing and stretching his long legs. I will go on an adventure. Remind myself I’m alive.
Ignoring the calls of his courtiers, he strode across the lawn into the woods. He caught a glimpse of Titania’s perplexed face as he passed her without a word. She didn’t stop dancing, however, he noted.
Maybe if he vanished she would finally take notice of him. Maybe she would even miss him.
Through the woods, past the lake, along the stream, all the time thinking. Did Titania wonder why he walked away from her fete? Not that he cared. Oh no, not he.
He walked faster. There was a pleasant place he recalled from the time when the worlds commingled. A simmering little stew of a fair town, a bowshot from London’s fortified walls. He remembered it well, a smile crossing his blue face. Who would not? It was a bustling market town when he was there last. Fair Folk like himself traveled there whenever they wanted to; his strange looks were not surprising or out of place to the market people.
He recalled the echoing cries: “What do ye lack? What will ye buy?” Anything that could be bought or bartered was available: spiced ale, porpoise tongues, fine English woolens. Even bears for baiting could be had, and fresh cherries, tart and sweet.
And more. Auberon remembered his purse overflowing with acorns, grass, and leaves, all turning to fairy gold when he wanted it, only to return to its natural state when he left the marketplace. He grinned, thinking of the confusion that transformation must have caused after his departure.
Let Titania and her minstrels pluck and strum to their hearts’ content, he thought. I will divert myself with livelier music, and perhaps find a more contented heart for myself there.
He came to a place of deep quiet. Here the grass grew in a spiral; and beginning at the outermost point, he walked the pattern, whispering the words. He released the magic into the atmosphere and felt himself vanish. He rematerialized in another world.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. Acrid and dirty, the air was something he could taste, and nearly see.
A clattering behind him caused him to turn. To his surprise, a bright white unicorn stood on the broken pavement, looking as out of place as Auberon felt. The creature must have followed me through the portal, Auberon surmised. Before he could approach the beautiful animal, it whinnied, shook its pure white mane, and trotted away. Odd, Auberon thought. It almost seemed as if the unicorn had a destination in mind. Unlike me.
King Auberon turned back to survey his surroundings. What had happened to his fair town? He recognized the shape of the coast; the docks jutted out into the water in the same locations as they had all those years ago. But now the piers were rotting, the water was coated with slick oil, and even the birds that circled for food seemed thuggish and menacing.
The sky here, in this other world, was not blue. It was steel gray, speckled with sooty clouds. Tall chimney stacks belched black smoke. For the first time in his long life, Auberon coughed. The polluted atmosphere burned the back of his throat and his green eyes watered.
While his delicate system responded to the particle-laden atmosphere, his pointed ears were assaulted by a jumbled cacophony. The sounds competed with one another to claim title to the most grating. Screeching machinery, constant honking, shouts, and slams made Auberon wonder if the inhabitants had found a way to grow deaf in self-defense. This was a world of chatter and blare.
And it was almost unbearably ugly. After
the lush and gilded Faerie, the scene before him was an affront. Filth coated the uneven pavement and buildings. Sharp and jagged lines cut into the gray sky—monstrosities of steel rose up around him. There was nothing soft and welcoming here. All was cold metal.
Once, Auberon had enjoyed the human world’s contrast with his pastel Faerie. The edgy energy, the sharp lines, the primitive, less-refined elements—including the inhabitants—had been refreshing, bracing. But this? He looked around. What could this world offer a gentleman such as he? If he took these surroundings as evidence, he and the humans had grown much too far apart. The differences between them were too extreme. He could not imagine finding pleasure in this sad and angry place.
But he had come for adventure; he would not turn tail and run so hastily. Perhaps this sorry spot was merely the ragged outskirts of a less desolate town. I shall search deeper in, he decided. Perhaps that’s precisely what the unicorn was doing—perhaps it has been here before.
Auberon left the wharves, turning his back on the oil-slicked water. Just a few yards ahead he spotted a thick-necked man in a stained shirt and trousers talking to a young woman. It was the woman who truly caught Auberon’s attention. Not just because she had a pretty face and lovely golden hair trailing down her back. It was her garb. She wore the long dress and laced chemise of the market women he had met in the earlier days. Was she a visitor like himself? He slipped into an alleyway to listen, curious if he would even understand their language anymore.
“So, you slip your soul in here,” the young woman explained to the slovenly man, holding up a glass sphere. “Then you’ve got it, darling. Your own world. Any way you like it.”
The man rubbed his three-day growth of beard. “I don’t know, angel. I got a VCR and a wide-screen TV back at my flat. I’ve got all the entertainment I need, without any highfalutin nonsense about souls.” He snorted. “Crystal balls and souls! You actually believe this hooey?”
The woman frowned. “I can’t abide a man who laughs at me. I swear I can’t.”
“Tell you what, angel.” He stepped closer to the woman. “Why don’t you come back to my place and give me a demo?” He chucked her under the chin. “You don’t expect me to buy something sight unseen, do you? I think I ought to get a sample.”
The woman jerked her face away from the man. “I expect you’d like to sample me if I gave you half a chance. Which I will not!”
“Awww, be nice, girlie,” the man wheedled. “You and me was getting along just fine.” He reached for her again, and Auberon had had enough. He stepped out of the shadows and clamped his large blue hand on the man’s arm.
“My lady,” Auberon said. “Does this churl trouble you?”
The man gaped up at the seven-foot King with the ram’s horns on his head, pointed ears, long green hair, and blue skin. His mouth opened and closed several times, and his eyes rolled up into his head. Auberon sensed the man was about to faint, and released him. The man slid to the pavement. Auberon stepped over him. “I believe he will bother you no more.”
The woman stared at Auberon, and blinked several times. Then she cast her eyes downward and curtsied.
“Goodness me, a gentleman!”
Auberon smiled and tipped his head. “Your servant, lady.” Her quick acceptance of his unusual appearance made him suspect that she had seen his like before. Given her clothing and her manner of speech, he wondered if she had somehow visited the old market days when Faerie folk easily passed between the worlds.
“Oh no, your lordship. Begging your pardon, if there’s serving to be done here, I’ll do it.”
“Tell me, if you will, why grace and beauty such as yours are wasted in so desolate a place?”
“Lordship, I sell my globes where I can.” She held up a sparkling translucent ball, much like the kind Auberon had seen Gypsy women use to read fortunes at the marketplace. “It’s horrid places like this where I find buyers for what I have to sell. Precious few decent people believe in paradise nowadays. And most of those think they’ve already bought their piece of it.”
Auberon held out his hand. She put the globe in his blue palm. “This is paradise? This bauble?” He tried to hide a smile.
The woman’s irritated expression indicated that his efforts to conceal his disbelief had not worked. “Pardon me, lordship. But when I say apples I don’t mean oranges. Try it and then tell me it’s not paradise.” Her chin jutted out in challenge.
“I am Auberon of the Fay, lady,” Auberon declared. “I have ruled a realm of high Magick longer than your upstart race has sported thumbs. Shall a lord of Faerie trust his soul to a toy of man’s devising? I think not.”
The woman’s manner completely changed. She slumped and lowered her eyes. “Of course a gentleman of your quality couldn’t lower himself,” she said apologetically. She curtsied again. “I beg your pardon, my lord. It’s just that you were so kind to me, I had hoped that…” She stopped herself and shook her head. “No…no…I shan’t speak of hope today. It’s as you say. You belong on a throne and my place is in the gutter.”
“Lady, you take my words too much to heart,” Auberon protested. He didn’t want to offend her; he didn’t want her to leave. He enjoyed her spunky defiance, her pretty face, her familiar language. He liked the attention and the unpredictability of a simple flirtation—a game without consequences. “Tell me your name, lady.”
“Gwendolyn,” she replied in a meek voice.
“Now, my Gwendolyn, let us remain friends. Shall so slight a grievance part us? I would not have you think I scorn you or your race and its achievements.”
She seemed eager to part ways, as if she were still wounded by the slight. She held out her pretty little hand. “Please, lordship, give me the globe. I really must go.”
“You doubt me and my sincerity. How shall I make it up to you?” He studied the globe and noticed it had holes in its top and its bottom for a person to insert his fingers. “Look, I’ll try out your little bauble if it will make you feel better.”
Her face lit up with delight. Auberon gave the girl a grin, pleased that he had soothed her ruffled feelings. She really was most attractive. Throwing caution to the winds, he plunged his fingers into the holes.
“Arghghh!” He threw his head back and wailed. A great whooshing surged though his entire body, as if he were being flooded from the inside out. He tried to extract his fingers, but they were locked in somehow. He struggled against the pull of the globe; he felt the evil object draining something vital from him—more vital even than blood. In his final moments of self-awareness, he realized this was not a means of finding paradise. It was a device to trap souls. Then the world turned even more colorless, and Auberon felt nothing at all.
A sly grin crossed Gwendolyn’s face. “Thank you, Lovey-horns, that was such a gallant gesture. I knew from the moment I saw you you were a perfect gentleman. Now let me take you away from all this.”
Chapter Four
TIM LEFT THE ABANDONED LOT in a hurry, heading for Molly’s house. “Who would have ever thought imaginary friends could turn real?” he wondered. Tim shuddered.
Even thoughts have consequences, he realized. The Wobbly started out as scraps and sticks—now he’d become a full-blown predator. “How could I have known?” Tim said. “I was just five years old when I made him.” He certainly never imagined he’d have to rescue one set of imaginary friends from another!
He grinned. Tanger and Crimple were awfully cute. He liked meeting them in the…well, flesh didn’t exactly seem the right word, since they were made of twigs. Anyway, he’d gone to the lot to come up with evidence for Molly that he truly did magic. Tanger and Crimple were certainly that! Only once again, Tim couldn’t be certain how that trick had been accomplished. The creatures just seemed to have happened.
Happened because magic happened, Tim thought. What had they all called him? The Opener. And the Wobbly had said that Tim had “opened the way.” I do seem to have a knack for opening up paths between worlds, T
im thought. I’ve been back and forth between several already.
I’ll worry about the significance of all this later, Tim told himself. Right now, I have bigger things to worry about—like keeping Molly waiting.
Tim arrived at Molly’s street. The monumental nature of what he was about to tell her slowed him down. Truth be told, he was also kind of nervous about seeing her, because he was now over an hour late. “So this is how Clint Eastwood felt in all those high noon–showdown sort of movies,” he muttered nervously. “No wonder he moved so slowly.” It was only then that he realized he was now walking. He smacked his forehead. “Doofus,” he said. “You left your skateboard back at the lot! And there’s no time to go get it now.” Well, maybe the Narls would look after it for him. He’d stop by and retrieve it later.
Tim knocked on the door. He heard the sound of bolts being drawn back. Molly opened the door just a smidge, leaving the chain lock in place.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said disdainfully.
“Uh, sorry I’m late,” Tim said. “It’s just…something came up. Quite unexpected.”
“Uh-huh.” Molly peered at him through the sliver of opened door. “And I should forgive you…why?”
“Because…because…” Tim stuck his hands in his pockets, fiddling with his change. “Because I’m super sorry? Extra sorry, stupendously, stratospherically sorry?”
Molly grinned. “Now that’s more like it.”
Tim grinned back. “Brilliant.”
Molly shut the door again so that she could undo the chain. She flung it open, and Tim saw that she’d had her coat on all along. “I’m going out,” she hollered back into the house, then shut the door behind her.
“Okay,” she declared. “You’re going to take me out for ice cream now like you promised.”
That was news to Tim. “I did?”
Molly raised one eyebrow.
“Of course I did,” Tim said hastily.
Molly seized his hand, dragging him down the walkway. “We need to make a quick getaway. Otherwise we’ll be joined by the entire clan.”
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