by Jane Yolen
“Hi-de-ho!” the two sang until all but Red Cap and Lankin were unmounted.
Near them, but now falling slowly from the sky, her wings scattering in a cloud of feathers, was a bulky woman, pale as a milkweed. She touched down softly onto the bridge, then came racing toward me, faster than such a woman had any right to run.
“Paddle Foot!” It was Serana, in the ugliest dress I have ever seen. But ugly dress, fleshy body, she was my sister and I felt her pulse as though it were my own.
“Sister,” I cried. And then I fainted.
When I came to, I thought it was Serana’s hands pressing against my chest, trying to stop the flow of blood. But it was Sparrow who stanched the wound, weeping and calling to me to have courage, to stay with her as the fight roared over our heads. Parts of the bridge, bits of iron, were falling all about us, as thick as summer rains. Though surprisingly, none struck us, for Sparrow held me in the protection of her arms. And it was then I knew for certain why Red Cap had sought to claim the girl and why the Queen had banished us here to be her hope for return.
I could feel in her touch the royal richness of her fey blood, blood that thickened with the summer sun, blood like the green healing sap of the trees bringing resurrection from their winter’s death. But she was also something new. Not just the Queen’s child. She had a magic made greater by her human side and all the sorrows she had borne.
Sparrow poured her light into me and had I not stopped her, she would have emptied herself of the gift to see me healed. This I could not let her do. Weak, but alive, I roused myself and held her face between my hands. “Enough, child,” I said. “You have done enough.”
“Will you look at that,” shouted Vinnie, swinging her cudgel against a kucklebones’ legs, knocking it flat against the ground. A second strike pummeled its ugly face.
Sparrow and I turned and there was Serana, my brave sister, crouched like a tiger on Red Cap’s back, a fat, aging tiger but one whose claws still could make a mark. She raked at his face and he flailed on the back of his horse, both astonished and furious to be caught so short, and by an aged dam. And while she fought him, the iron parts of the bridge rained down so hard I feared for her life.
Meanwhile, the black crones slid and leapt beneath the bellies of the horses, calling back and forth to each other. And the faerie horses, their eyes rolling with terror, once again bucked their riders to the ground.
Almost, I thought. Perhaps, I prayed. Hope beat in my breast like a caged bird. And then I wailed, holding out a hand useless to help, as I watched Red Cap reach his long arms behind him, grasp Serana, and fling her to the ground. She hit the concrete, and bounced, hard. Curling in agony, she tried desperately to stay clear of the trampling hooves.
I could not stop screaming her name, trying to rise and the blood erupting anew from my wounds when I saw him sword in hand, searching for her amid the agitated horses.
That was the moment of my greatest despair. I could think of no greater loss, no greater horror, than to lose Serana, twin beat to my heart. There on the bridge, that span between the mortal world and that of our realm, I thought to die with her, the crones, Vinnie, the children of our blood, and my Jack, still fighting to protect me. I struggled to my feet to meet this death with honor. And wavering as I stood, I heard a sound I thought never to hear again.
The bright thrilling cry of the Seelie horns.
I turned and saw the wall of golden light flare, for a moment blinding all on the bridge. The flock of crows scattered, their wild caws heralding the arrival of the Queen’s court, riding through the shower of light to join us on the bridge. They came swiftly, the bells of their bridles ringing madly, the arrows of our archers nocked in the great ash bows. As they came, the UnSeelie withdrew from us in haste to the far side of the bridge, scrambling up onto their twice-addled mounts and dragging with them their wounded. Their dead they left unceremoniously behind.
And just as suddenly Serana was there, her arms wrapped around me. Blood calls to blood and so did ours, mingling from the wounds we carried along with the tears. We touched one another’s faces with wonder and then we laughed, for I think we had not really understood how aged we were until we saw our reflection in the other’s eyes.
When the Queen arrived at the midway point of the bridge, there was another stillness in the air, though no menace in this one. She sat straight-backed on the snowy mare, holding a torch high, the gold corona of her hair like the sun. In its light, her eyes blazed with fury. She called out to Red Cap, “You are forbidden to hunt a child of the royal blood.”
“Hah! Old Queen, the girl stinks of human meat. No glamour can hide that. Ho!” He snarled, but defeat was written on his face.
“And yet she is both. Blood of my blood and blood of the mortal that sired her. There is no shame there.”
“Ho! No shame? Then why hide her so long? This mongrel whelp—”
“This Highborn Queen has the right to command you who are nothing more than a servant.” She smiled at him, and I felt my bowels curdle at that smile. “I hid her so you could not do what you have tried.”
“Monstrous!”
“But true,” cackled a voice from behind the horses. A path was made and Baba Yaga as I remembered her—naked and coarse—a satchel slung over one shoulder, strolled to Red Cap, who was still seething in pent-up rage. “I have not forgotten you,” she said, wagging a bony finger in his direction. “You offered no sacrifice to me, no gesture of respect which I am owed. Your creatures desecrated my house and gardens. And the house of my friend, the Jack. Very bad manners. By right of law, I could eat you, but I doubt I would like the taste.”
Red Cap looked down, like a boy chastised.
Lankin kicked his mount, forcing it through the throng of boogans and nightstalkers until he was close enough to look down from atop his horse at Baba Yaga. “We owe no allegiance to you, old hag. The Dark rises and you are history.” His lips pulled into a sneer. “Red Cap, forget that bastard child, we have no need of her blood, for I have found another way.” He held up a crystal flask and when he opened it, the ripe scent of mortal blood filled the air, thick and cloying as almond paste. The still-living hounds bayed and their jaws snapped hungrily.
Without warning, Baba Yaga reached out a clawed hand and with a powerful swipe tore open the neck of Lankin’s mount. The terrified horse reared up, and wild with pain, splattered hot blood over the concrete.
Bellowing commands, Lankin struggled to control his panicked horse but he was thrown to the ground as the horse collapsed on its side, and the flask of human blood shattered next to him.
The boogans, ignoring the thrashing legs of the dying horse, threw themselves down on all fours and lapped at the slick puddles of the mingled blood. Lankin was left to grovel beside his slain horse, desperately trying to gather up the broken shards of glass and save some of the contents.
Ignoring the frenzied bodies feeding at her feet, Baba Yaga tore handfuls of flesh from the dying horse and consumed it in huge mouthfuls, her jaws cracking with pleasure. We all watched silently as she ate her fill. Even Red Cap withdrew, reminded I am sure that the Great Witch could never be claimed by either side. She was her own universe.
Finally, having finished her meal, and licking her fingers, Baba Yaga looked down at Lankin, and sniffed. “That’s for killing my dog. You should have kept the fuck out of my house.”
She walked over to where Sparrow and I waited, still clinging to one another. She removed a cloth bag from her satchel and handed it to Sparrow.
“Your journals. You left them behind.”
Sparrow took the bag in both hands and the tears formed in her eyes. “Lily,” she said. “I couldn’t save Lily. I’m sorry. I loved that little dog.”
Baba Yaga smiled, a not entirely pleasing sight as bits of Lankin’s horse were still visible in her iron-capped teeth. She patted the satchel. “Her bones are here. The Hands saved them for me. I will make another Lily. That little shit Red Cap has no power over th
ose under my protection. Including you.” She leaned down and gave Sparrow an unexpected kiss on the forehead. “See,” she whispered to Sparrow, though I was close enough to hear, “now both sides will think very hard before giving trouble for you.”
Then she turned and tapped me lightly on the cheek. “You’ve done well, little one. My garden looked good and will look good again. As for those very bad boys of the first floor, they are now keeping the rusalki company in the lake. It’s time for me to go home again for a while.” The burning embers of her eyes flared to life. “The fall semester is about to begin. And the little chicks will be looking for a place to live.”
She strolled to the Queen who slid from her horse to greet the Witch. How odd it was to see them standing there, youth and beauty bowing her head before Baba Yaga’s aged body. Baba Yaga spoke to her softly, and the Queen’s gaze followed to where Sparrow and I still huddled together on the ground. I saw her smile weakly, and then nod. Baba Yaga stepped away and the Seelie court parted to let her pass. She walked away down the bridge with her vigorous stride, and then she was gone, swallowed up by the darkness long before she reached the veil of lights that hid the Greenwood and Faerie.
69
Sparrow Begins a New Tale
Sparrow sat at the small table fashioned from a root that protruded from the cavernous wall of her room in the Queen’s chambers Under the Hill. She had not quite gotten used to the oddness of being beneath the ground, like a mole. While she no longer found the dark, earthy smell difficult, nor even the lack of light a problem—the glowworm lanterns shed a lovely light—sometimes she dreamed of rivers and high-rise buildings and wished for a double latte or a BLT on wheat toast.
But for now, the Queen’s chambers were deemed a better place for her than up in the Greenwood, where disgruntled Highborns from both courts might still take offense at her presence. They would do her no harm, the Great Witch had seen to that, but they could be cruel and petty, and the insults cut as easily as a knife.
“They need time to get used to the idea,” Robin had told her after the meeting of the Council. “But they will. Because we are here, there will be new life in the old clans. The women will come first to thank you when their bellies swell, and as sons are born, so too will their lords.”
“Is that all we are? Fertility idols?” Sparrow joked.
He’d placed his hand on her belly and smiled. “What’s wrong with that? Perhaps we should give them a lesson in how to procreate? There is a newly plowed field not too far from here. And the moon is full.”
“Not another public performance for me,” she’d answered tartly. “Once was enough.”
“In the furrows, you mean,” he’d answered, but smiled, to show he understood. Her private performances with him were proof enough that once was not exactly enough. For either one of them.
Sparrow pulled out a new journal, this one bound in leather. She opened it, and held it to her nose, inhaling the perfume of the rosemary leaves that had been pressed into the margins of the cream-colored paper.
“Almost hate to write on it,” she said aloud. At her feet a puppy stirred and whimpered. Sparrow glanced down at the fat-bellied creature, a gift from the Great Witch. The puppy’s white fur was spotted with the occasional liver-colored blotch. Sparrow reached down and tickled the pup behind her ears until she settled down again, yawned a wide pink-mouth yawn, and promptly fell back to sleep.
Returning to the pages of the journal, Sparrow wondered where to start this story of her life. Should it begin with Baba Yaga in the park? With Sophia’s arrival at the house? Or the tattoo? None of those appealed to her. What about Robin? Sparrow flushed red at the table remembering Sophia and Jack tripping over them in the garden. It sure wasn’t how she’d imagined her first time. Her face softened, thinking about sharing a bed with Robin at Jack’s house. He’d held her, nothing more, offering comfort and explanations.
“Do you know who you are?” he’d asked.
“Is that a trick question?”
“It’s an important one.”
“Then tell me. Who am I?”
He’d whispered a name into her ear. Passerinia. A name he’d found etched on the spine of a green leaf near a spring. It belonged to her, given her by the Queen herself. It meant Sparrow.
Sparrow had wept when she heard it, for she remembered, long ago, on a sunny day, being rocked to sleep in the arms of a woman with shining hair singing her name softly in a lullaby. Only once and yet it had lain in her memory like a seed.
Two nights later, at Vinnie’s and in bed once more together, Robin had given her his true name. Articus.
“Does it mean Robin?”
“No—it means something cold. But he who named me wanted me to be ice.”
“You’re not ice at all.” She’d snuggled closer.
He told her his story then, and it was even uglier than hers. The mother raped and destroyed by Red Cap, the life of servitude, the beatings, and the blood. He too had wept, grateful tears when she put her arms around him. And that time when he’d kissed her, she responded. There was no feverish rush, but something more thoughtful, more confident. He was gentle and she opened up as before, but without fear, without the arum’s heady charge.
Later, as Sparrow lay on his chest amid the tangled sheets, Robin had said, “We can change everything, right here and right now, if we choose.”
“How?”
“A pledge of blood. The fey need mortal blood and in the past blood was taken as a sacrifice in the tithe. The Queen put a stop to it, perhaps when she was thinking of you. But what if we pledge our blood to each other—mortal and fey together?”
“Can we do that?”
“We can try. It would certainly shake up the Council.”
Robin had retrieved a small knife from his pants pocket and returned to the bed. He cut a line in the center of his hand and closed his palm around the flowing blood. He had handed Sparrow the knife.
“Too bad we couldn’t just spit on it,” she said, eyeing the knife. But she took it and biting down on her lower lip, cut a gash into her palm, then quickly pressed it against his.
“Do we say anything?”
“Ouch!” And then his face grew serious. “I give you, daughter of the Seelie Queen, the pledge of my blood, the tithe which you require.”
“And I give you, Robin, the pledge of my blood, the tithe which you require,” she’d answered.
“Then it is done and none may take offense,” he’d finished.
Robin had bandaged their hands, less to stanch the wounds than to protect Vinnie’s sheets from stains. In the morning when they’d risen, the wounds were healed and there were only pale scars on their palms.
Sparrow sighed, recalling how she’d felt Robin’s power flowing through her, as he must have felt hers. It was like being a little drunk and very happy. That last night at Vinnie’s, she suddenly discovered she knew the words to all of the songs Robin played on his fiddle. She also knew that the tattoo of trouble was fading, for she could feel the lines of ink crumble on the surface of her skin like a scab over a healed wound.
And what of the Queen? So long parted, they met again on a bridge in the midst of battle. Not the best place for a reunion. But later, when Sparrow felt the shivering thrill of passing through the veil into Elfland, the Queen had called a halt to her procession. Slipping down from her horse, she had come to Sparrow, who was mounted up behind Robin on a black horse.
“Walk with me,” she had said.
And while the rest of the court waited on the path, Sparrow and the Queen faced each other in the twilight shadows beneath the oaks. The Queen who had seemed so powerful on the bridge now trembled. She reached out a hand and touched Sparrow on the cheek.
“Forgive me.”
Sparrow closed her eyes, the years of anguish falling from her shoulders. “You abandoned me.”
“Not entirely. I sent the deer to wait on you. I prayed to keep you safe until you were grown. But it did not happen thu
s. Those sisters,” and she sighed, with a mixture of annoyance and respect.
Sparrow had laughed at that. “Still, they made good. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Meteora. And her sister isn’t half bad either.”
The Queen chuckled softly. “Even the powerful must never forget the power of the smallest of our clans.”
“My father . . .” Sparrow began, almost afraid to ask.
“Is no more,” the Queen answered. She looked away and Sparrow saw the smooth expression crumple for a moment before returning, serene and regal. “For a mortal to lie with a Highborn fey is to invite madness. Death has freed him of that affliction.”
Sparrow and the Queen stood awkwardly, until Sparrow offered the only gesture possible to free them from the past. She put her arms around the Queen’s neck and held her, until the stiffness left the Queen’s body and she responded at last, leaning in to receive the embrace of her lost child.
* * *
DIPPING HER PEN INTO AN inkwell, Sparrow began to write on the first page: “This is the tale of Sparrow who fell from the nest, was lost, and then found again by Cock Robin.” Then she leaned back and laughed at her own joke until the little dog at her feet woke and started barking.
70
Meteora Writes a Letter
Dearest Sister,
You have just left with the crones, and though I long to see your face every day, I was not surprised you decided to travel in the world with them—for it seems that in such a short time, the world we knew has changed, perhaps for the better. I was amazed as were we all when the crones entered the Greenwood. Who among us would have guessed at their true shapes? I marveled at their beautiful black skin, smooth as polished obsidian, and their regal bearing, dressed in robes of woven feathers, glass beads, and gold. Their power was undeniable and they are as old as the country from which they first came.