“You smell like freshly baked bread.”
In front of her both Ben and Wolf-boy nodded.
“You do!” Ben shouted over the noise and music filling the bar.
Everyone had lost it and she needed to get back to work.
“It’s a new perfume,” she shouted back at them. “Called Magic.”
She had no idea why she said that. But when she did, for just a moment, the most handsome man she could ever imagine appeared in her mind, laughing.
Damn, she was so horny, she might have to call Twilight Zone Boy if she didn’t find someone tonight.
But the party for St. Patrick’s Day was just getting started. She just might meet someone yet. Anything would be better than watching that stupid Men in Black movie one more time.
MUSHROOM CLOUDS AND FAIRY RINGS
J. A. Pitts
Molly woke repeating some of the words the Hound Master used when one of the young pups got a little too nippy. She stretched, raised her head off the toadstool she’d been sleeping against, and looked to see who was knocking at her door.
Only there wasn’t a door. She was sleeping in a ring of toadstools, The knocking wasn’t the Matron of Switches to remind her she was late for breakfast with the fairy princesses. Nope, the mushroom clouds that dotted the skyline were most definitely not on the agenda, as far as she recalled. As she watched, two more bloomed close at hand, and the world shook with a pair of great, fiery thumps.
Molly wasn’t scared, despite the booming and cracking that had woken her up. She’d had plenty of years practicing to be brave. She was the terror of all the little princess fairies who roamed the White Queen’s palace. But Molly wasn’t a fairy. She’d been snatched at birth, swapped for a doppelganger, and her parents, with seven other children, were none the wiser.
Once Molly realized she was growing to be bigger than the rest of the wee ones she played with, things began to unravel for the Matron of Switches, the ornery old brownie who was responsible for keeping order amongst the nursery brood.
Twice Molly had to be bespelled to stop her temper, and once, though it was only whispered about, it was reported that the White Queen herself had come down to the nursery to quiet young Molly and set her to right. Molly still had the mark where the White Queen had touched her with the ice wand she waved around. The scar kept her temper in check most days and reminded her just how angry the White Queen had been.
She looked down at her pack. Inside was the seedling she was to swap for another child. The half empty bottle of moonshine she’d snitched from those nine-pin crazy dwarves set nestled against her hip as secure as could be.
Mushrooms were not new to her, nor toadstools, though they had a whole different magic to them. These mushrooms that dotted the horizon were made of fire and ash, she could tell even from here. A nasty wind blew around her as well. The trees and bushes erupted into flames, but she stood unscathed in her fairy ring.
“I’m not sure what the big’uns have gotten themselves up to,” she said to no one particular. “But there is no way I’m taking responsibility for this with the Matron of Switches.”
All the young’uns in the nursery feared the Matron of Switches. She loved nothing better than to march one of the fairy princesses out into the garden and laugh at her tears as she picked their own switch for one transgression or another.
It wasn’t until Molly was big that the other fey began to find an advantage to her height and strength. That was the winter when wolves broke into the garden where the princesses were having their tea party. Molly picked up a garden hoe and set about the young wolflings, sending them scattering back across the hedge with their tails between their legs.
That time the Matron of Switches did something far worse than switching young Molly. She kissed her on the forehead and sent her to her room with an extra plate of sugar cookies. Molly had been so undone that she’d almost wished to be switched. At least then, she’d have known where the tears were from.
Soon after, the White Queen saw fit to send Molly on a trip to her birth world. It was here she saw others like her, tall and gangly, all arms and legs, with nary a glittery wing, nor a pointed ear. Here her plain round ears and lack of wings didn’t set her apart. And with that knowledge grew a sense of purpose. The White Queen explained to Molly that the Matron of Switches had suggested she be allowed to visit the world she’d been born to. It was a very big responsibility, but as Molly was a big girl (compared to the fairies, at least), she could probably handle it.
Molly set about learning the things the fairies wanted her to learn. She preferred to run with the dwarves down in the kitchens or wrestle with the gnomes out in the garden . . . as long as she was cleaned up and at tea at the proper time, all was forgiven.
When it looked like the fires were going to keep burning a while, Molly began to look longingly at the moonshine. She loved the way the dew of the mountain made her all warm and tingly as it worked its way through her belly. The long sleep it gave her would probably last long enough for the firestorm that swept the mountain to burn itself out. She nudged the little seedling in her pack and whispered, “Maybe we should take another little nip, sleep a bitty bit, and see if the big’uns get their house in order while we’re in dreamland.” Not like the fey would notice the time going by. Twice before, she’d been gone to the land of the big’uns for days and nights, only to return to Summerland the same day and in plenty of time for afternoon tea.
So Molly settled down in her little nest of leaves and took another long sip of mountain whiskey. She watched the sky above her flash with gold and red as the clouds were swept away and the black of night fell on the world.
“I’ll just swap you for a big’un after I’ve had a bit more nap,” she whispered to the seedling. “They’ll all be busy what with the burning and all.”
The next time Molly woke she noticed two things right away. First, she was a mite taller than she’d been when she went to sleep. Second, the fiery storm that had swept over the mountain was long gone, and all sorts of green and growing things were smashed right up against the circle of toadstools she slept in. Her feet were right on the edge of the ring, and her hair, where it had grown over into the edge of the circle, had turned white as ash.
She stood, making sure her satchel was handy, and noticed that all her clothes were too tight and the satchel was a lot tinier than she remembered it.
There in the bottom, with her seedling, were her dainty white gloves for tea parties with the fairy princesses and the good, stout knife the Hound Master had snuck into her pack the first time the White Queen had sent her forth into the land of her forefathers. She took out the knife and tucked it into the band of her too-tight britches. Her top was so small, her belly showed, and her shoes had burst off her feet while she slept.
“I must look a sight,” she told the seedling. “But I reckon it’s time to go fetch one of those big’uns like the White Queen demanded.”
She looked around, tucked the moonshine in her satchel for safekeeping, and stepped outside the ring.
She forgot just what being in that ring did for her. As soon as she’d stepped over the toadstools, her head began to throb from all the durn moonshine.
“Well, little bit,” she mewled to the seedling. “Let that be a lesson to you. Too much moonshine makes your head throb and your eyes blurry.”
After a minute where she thought her insides were going to crawl out through the back of her eyes, she was able to take a second step and look around the riotous world of greenery.
“Nothing for it but to begin,” she said pushing through the underbrush. “Ain’t no girl-child gonna fall from the sky.”
Soon enough she came upon an old road that was cracked and overgrown. She remembered these pathways from her last trip here. Highways, the big’uns had called them. They’d sure let things go, she thought. No pride in keeping a tidy place.
She walked for near an hour before she saw her second surprise. There among the weeds and br
ambles was a row of rusted-out carriages filled with the bleached bones of the dead.
The fey knew about the dead. The Black Queen liked to send them against the White Queen’s armies from time to time—shambling corpses that blundered over tea parties and had no respect for doilies or placemats.
These were not shambling, however. They lay as quiet as mice, jumbled and tossed about in the insides of their carriages. Some of the glass was intact, but in general, the good green of the world had begun to overtake them and hide them from pleasant folk.
The first real hill she was able to climb let her get a good look at one of the villages the big’uns liked to gather in. While the fey had cute little cottages or in the case of the White Queen, an enormous castle, the big’uns had tall thin towers that reached up to the sky.
Only now they were broken as well: shattered spires and rusted skeletons of fortresses that scraped the sky. It made her sad, the way the big’uns had let their villages go to seed. Sure enough, the roads were overgrown with wild things, vines and twisty prickers like blackberries and worse.
Everywhere there was the pale white of bones amongst the deep green of the forest that had invaded the villages and scoured the world.
“You know what I think,” Molly said to the seedling. “I’m thinking the big’uns done broke this old world. I can’t never go back to the tea parties and cotillions if I don’t swap you for a right goodly girl child.”
Molly walked while the sky was shiny and bright, and kept walking after the skies overhead were filled with twinkling lights.
She lay down in a clearing, not far from an old house used by the big’uns before they’d all gone and killed each other. With the seedling lying on her chest—which had grown a might more lumpy than the last time she recalled waking up, she discussed their options.
By the time sleep took her she’d resolved herself to start the morning right, have a bit of tea and one of the three cakes she’d brought with her, and do a little witching to help her find her way.
As the sun rose the following morning, streaking the sky with violet and lavender, Molly walked to the middle of a wide swath of clover and settled her little pack onto the ground in front of her. From inside, she took out a blanket covered in pink hearts and yellow moons. Once this was spread, she set two places. In the center she placed the teapot the Princess of Pansies had given her for her last birthday party. They really didn’t know when anyone’s birthday was, since time in the Summerland didn’t actually flow like a river. It was more of a suggestion ; at least, that’s what the Master of Hounds had explained to her when she’d asked. She liked the old man, who was a human like her, one of the big’uns that had been taken at birth. He’d worked through a lot of years; growing old with the fey took a long, long time.
Once she’d poured her tea and plucked one of the sweet cakes from her satchel, she set the seedling on the far side of the blanket in front of her teacup and poured a dram into the saucer. This way, the seedling could have a bit of a soak in the hot, sweet concoction.
Having drunk her fill and nibbled the edges of the cake, Molly pulled the knife from her waistband and held the tip against her thumb, just enough for the sharp point to draw a single bead of blood. She leaned over the dregs of tea in her cup, allowed the one drop of blood to fall down amongst the leaves, and swished the cup three times widdershins. Then she tipped it upside down, letting the final drips fill the saucer. While the tea drained, she packed everything back into her satchel.
Sitting cross-legged on the clover, she picked up the teacup and turned it over, studying the leaves that had congealed in the bottom of the cup. “I see,” she said aloud so the seedling could hear her and not be afraid. “There are no people anywhere I can find.” She looked across the great rolling hill up to a block of broken towers. “But people lived there once upon a time. There may be something in that direction”—she pointed away from the rising sun—“that’s like people, only just.”
She tapped the tea leaves out onto the ground and stashed the teacup back into her satchel. As the seedling had begun to grow just a little, she decided to braid it in her hair so she wouldn’t lose the wispy thing, and allow her a chance to see the sights.
They walked for the better part of three days, by turns galumphing across the open spaces and creeping through the broken bones of the world. They slept by turns in carriages (empty of old bones), carousels, and lopsided buildings with their insides turned out and their outsides flopped around like old slippers.
“I grow weary of all these broken palaces and gaping skulls,” she said on the fourth day. The mountains were starting to fall behind her, and the vast plains opened before. “Buttercup told me once there was a magical city on the edge of a very large lake,” she said confidently. “There, if you were a very brave princess, you could meet a surly wizard or maybe a brave soldier who would do your bidding if you smiled daintily enough.”
She touched the long curl that fell down from behind her left ear, with the seedling woven in amongst the locks. “Do you fancy meeting a handsome waif to steal your heart?”
But, as always, the seedling did not join in the conversation, and Molly grew tired of the very quietness of the world.
“I wish we could just go home,” Molly said one day as the sun set over a field of rusting carriages. “I’ll deny it, if you repeat it,” she said to the seedling. “But I even miss the Mistress of Switches.”
On a cloudy day deep in the countryside, after three days of rain that spluttered like a fire and stung Molly’s exposed skin, they happened upon the metal man.
She assumed he was a man, for he was dressed for war. The thickness of his limbs and the weapons arrayed along his arms and legs spoke of great battles yet to be fought.
“Hello, warrior,” she said to the stoic sentinel.
He did not respond, just stood poised for action.
“I bet you would like some tea,” Molly said after watching the metal man for a solid hour. “The Mistress of Switches says even the most recalcitrant child will mellow with a nice cuppa.”
She set the tea, blanket, cups—three this time—and plates, of course. The first cake she’d nibbled to nothingness, so she broke the rose petals from the second one and allowed a bit of crumbs to dust each of the three plates.
The tea was hot and sweet, straight from the pot, but the warrior did not sit with her. She felt wary of touching him, so thinking back to the way the Master of Hounds handled the new pups, she took her best gloves from her satchel and put them on. Then she took up the warrior’s teacup and held it to his angular head.
“I’m sure you’ll like this. Fairy tea is much better than the draught of stinging rain and sunshine you’ve been living on these many years.”
She poured the tea from the cup, where it ran, thick and viscous, into the cracked face of the warrior. Not at all like the good, hot tea she’d poured from the pot, but fairy tea suited the tastes of the imbiber.
The warrior seemed to like the tea, for he did not complain. After she’d had a second cup of her own, she poured four more cups into the gullet of the metal man. Then she sprinkled a few of the crumbs from her nibbles into the open face, and set about packing her things.
“That is all I can do for you,” she said to the metal man. “I dearly hoped to hear your tale, but I fear I am not to your liking.” She took out the jackknife, cut a long curl from her very own hair, and laid it in the open palm of the metal man. “If you ever decide to waken, and find yourself in need of company, this should help you find me.”
Then she blew him a kiss and slung the satchel over her shoulder. She’d gone no more than seventy-three steps, not that she was counting, when she heard a scratchy, creaking noise from behind. She did not turn, but smiled, whispering to the seedling to be quiet and brave. Then she walked toward the next village in search for a wee bairn to take home to the White Queen.
For three days the metal man followed Molly and the seedling. At first the metal man sp
oke to her in a language of the forge, full of clatter and clanking and steam. Each day, Molly would stop for her tea, and the metal man would stand just beyond her sight, but she could hear him, panting and wheezing like a bellows. She would pour a third cup and let it sit while she curled up for a nap. When she awoke, the tea was gone, and the cup returned to its saucer with nary a crack or nick in the fine porcelain.
Once, during her morning constitutional, Molly thought she heard a raspy sort of singing, but decided it was more likely the wind.
On the fourth night since her last tea party, the metal man came staggering into her camp site. She’d set a tidy little fire to keep the dark at bay, and was considering another draught of tea, when she saw him.
“Welcome, Mr. Man,” she said standing quickly. “So you have decided to join us on our journey?”
The metal man took another step forward so the flickering light of the fire painted him in roils of red and orange.
“I do not understand,” the metal man said, his voice like a stiff wire brush over the bottom of an exceedingly sooty pot.
“What vexes you?” Molly asked, turning so the seedling could see their visitor.
“Each afternoon you sit at tea, and each afternoon I come and drink what you leave me,” he said. “You must know I have taken the tea and the occasional crumb that you have offered for me.”
Molly nodded once, trying to keep the smile from her lips.
“I crave the tea,” he said mournfully. “And my capacitors yearn for your company.”
Molly felt herself blush. Not many had ever requested her company. “Shall I pour tea, then?” she asked, stepping toward her satchel. “Would you like that?”
“Yes, please,” the metal man said stepping closer. “I would know if that is what wakened me from my long sleep.”
Molly smiled as she set the blanket on the ground. Perhaps it was my kiss, she thought quietly, lest the seedling grow jealous. Even a kiss blown upon the wind can have a mighty effect.
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