Chasing the Green Fairy: The Airship Racing Chronicles

by Melanie Karsak

  I looked over the side of the ship. The airship was floating above a deer path cutting through the woods. I saw nothing but trees. I sniggered. Help? I was being lowered into the green without rhyme or reason, the skeletal remains of a fairy tucked into my bag. Something told me I might need Merlin’s help to face what was coming next.

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you,” I said and grabbed the ladder. I climbed down and landed in the mud, my Moroccan satin slippers sinking into the wet earth. “Fantastic,” I cursed, pulling my feet out of the soggy ground. The slippers were flooded.

  Overhead, the balloon heater fired. The ladder was retracted, and the airship lifted toward the clouds. Moments later, I was entirely alone. It was late afternoon. The sun glimmered down through the canopy, casting slanting rays of light onto the forest floor. Spotting a rock nearby, I leaned against the stone and peeled off the slippers. I took a deep breath and looked around. The small deer path led deeper into the forest. I stood, now barefoot, and thought about what to do. My hands were already shaking, and a sick, empty feeling gripped my stomach. The opium had me. I took some laudanum and looked up at the trees. Overhead, the new leaves shifted in the breeze, and the soft call of birds and buzz of insects filled the air. I looked back at the rock on which I had been sitting. I hadn’t noticed before, but carved on the stone was the word “Arcadia.” Well, at least I was in the right place. I gazed down the path that led past the stone. Taking a deep breath, I headed into the woods.

  The place was utterly still save the soft hums of nature. It was a warm day. The sun was heating the newly awakened earth. The first flowers of spring, lily of the valley, blanketed the forest floor. Their sweet smell effervesced in the late day sun. I headed down the path in hope that I would find . . . something . . . before dark.

  The forest grew thicker, the trees very old, as I moved deeper into the woods. The path led me over a stream. I stopped to rinse out the slippers. My bare feet were managing on the earth, but I didn’t want to arrive, wherever, shoeless. Fortune, however, was not with me. “Dammit!” I cursed when the slippers slipped from my grasp and floated quickly downstream. Sighing, I climbed up the bank on the other side. My feet were cold, my back was sweating, and I felt like I wanted to throw up. I pulled off my hat, sticking it into my satchel, and pulled my hair into a braid. It felt good to get my hot, thick locks off the back of my neck. Nearby, I heard someone chopping wood.

  I dragged myself off the leafy earth, brushing the twigs and leaves from my clothes, and headed forward. The path led into a brushy gap in the mountainside. The chopping sound had abruptly stopped, but as I gazed up at the sky, I saw smoke rising from the other side of the gap. I was feeling annoyed; I was perspiring, feeling sick, feeling lost, and was just . . . miserable. Enough already. I pushed the bushes aside and passed through. On the other side, I found myself standing in the garden of a very old cottage.

  The space, almost completely hidden by the hills and trees, sheltered the small house. At the center of the garden, a fire burned under a large kettle. A small barn sat to one side of the little cottage. There were once other small structures in the space, but they were all overrun with vines. The main cabin, with its thatched roof and stone walls, was nearly choked by ivy. The earth was reclaiming the space. Near the fire was a pile of freshly split wood. An axe sat wedged into an unsplit log. I caught the light scent of cherry coming from the cut timber. Surely there was someone nearby.

  “Hello?” I called. My voice echoed.

  After a moment, the door to the cabin opened. A tall woman with striking red hair appeared. She wore a long green gown that swept to the floor. The hem was discolored from wear. She frowned but beckoned for me to come inside.

  “Okay,” I mumbled under my breath and went to the cabin door.

  The woman stood in the main room of the cottage near the old stone fireplace. She turned and looked at me. “Come in. Your feet must me freezing,” she said and motioned with her long hands toward a chair by the fire.

  I entered carefully. The cottage was very small and very old. Overhead, clutches of dried herbs hung from the beams. Copper pots and woven baskets hung from pegs on the walls. Such primitive items gave the sense that I had stepped back in time. On the other hand, there was velvet-upholstered furniture in the main sitting room and a fine rug in the center of the space. Beautiful oil paintings lined the walls and new lamps sat on the tables. Such rich adornments seemed out of place in the quaint cottage.

  Patting the back of a chair, she again encouraged me to sit. “Don’t be nervous,” she said. “I’m Ianthe.”

  “Lily,” I replied, and setting my bag down, I took a seat and pushed my feet toward the fire.

  Ianthe pulled her chair near mine. “Then it is true,” she said, her forehead furrowing as she sat back. The lines did not disappear when her face softened again. She was, perhaps, more than twice my age, maybe the same age as Sal. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that her red hair was liberally littered with white strands. Her pale skin gleamed like marble, making her vibrant blue eyes, the shade of periwinkles, stand out.

  “What’s true?”

  “That Lord Byron has died.”

  “Yes,” I replied carefully, watching her reaction.

  She scowled, her eyebrows creasing. “Were you personally acquainted with him?” she asked. The expression on her face and her tone of voice told me she was perplexed.

  “Yes.”

  She thought for a moment, closed her eyes, then chuckled to herself as she shook her head. “And you are the new Warden,” she more stated than asked. She rose and went to look out the window. She laughed again; it was a rueful, frustrated sound.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She turned and forced a smile. “It’s just . . . there has not been a Lady of Arcadia—save myself—for many, many years.”

  I thought about the list of names on the parchment. While the list had read like a calling card of the most prominent people in British history, not one woman’s name had graced that list—that I could read—save mine.

  “Lily . . . Lily Stargazer, I presume,” she said. “The airship racer.”

  “Yes,” I replied simply. Something told me that it was in my best interest not to say too much.

  Ianthe nodded. She smiled nicely at me. “I have seen your airships fly overhead. How graceful they look.”

  The woman was odd. I imagined Byron there with this creature who both looked and behaved like she’d fallen out of a fairytale. He would have loved it. “Let’s get to the point, shall we?” I said. “What does it mean, the Warden of Arcadia? What, exactly, is going on here?”

  Ianthe sat again and leaned toward me. “This estate is a very special place. It is essential to the health of the realm that Arcadia remains as she is. That is why the estate is kept in protectorate. The Warden is the public face of this private place. If there are wars to wage for this land, you will wage them. You are responsible to ensure all of the responsibilities of this estate are met. Arcadia has a long history with the Bank of Scotland and its founders. Much of your responsibilities will be handled directly by the bank. But, in the end, the Warden of Arcadia is someone who is selected because their spirit,” she said then paused, “their potential talent, speaks to the spirit of this realm. Of course, there is more that can be arranged between the Warden and me. If you . . . desire something . . . I can arrange for that desire to be met . . . for a price.”

  “Desire something?” The only thing I desired was a strong drink and a transport the hell out of there.

  “Surely, when you signed your name to the list, you noted the others who’d come before you. The estate of Arcadia has a long history of coaxing along the talent of its Wardens.”

  “How?”

  “The method is not really the business of the Warden.”

  “For a price.”

  The woman smiled at me with almost a sneer. “There is always a price. You knew Lord Byron well?”

  I did not like this
woman. As she gazed at me, the glow of the orange fire against one side of her face, I found her utterly untrustworthy. Her striking eyes and ethereal frame made her seem gentle and otherworldly. But her words were carefully measured, and the frown on her face told me she was a woman trying to learn the answer to a problem: me being the problem. I did not like her special arrangements or questions, and I did not want to share anything about myself or my relationship with Byron with her. I did not answer her.

  Taking my silence as a reply, she continued. “Such beautiful words, no? They will weep in the streets of London over the death of their poet. He became the icon of the age. His words and reputation will long outlive him.”

  I eyed the woman closely. The man she talked of, the qualities of the infamous Lord Byron, had nothing to do with the man I loved. I’d never read his poems. I’d loved him for him, not for who everyone else thought he was. But she didn’t need to know that. She’d already made up her mind about the kind of woman she thought I was. In her attempts to analyze me, she’d already decided what she thought might tempt me. And she was very far from the truth. The only thing I wanted was beyond anyone’s reach. Why had Byron sent me there? Why me?

  Just then, the door to the cabin opened. “Ianthe, I found a pair of slippers in the stream,” a man’s voice called. “Have you seen anyon—”

  Ianthe and I both rose.

  I turned to find a young man about my age standing in the doorway. He held my lost slippers in the palm of his wide hand. He was tall, blonde, and had green eyes the color of new leaves. He fixed those green eyes on me with such intensity that it took my breath away. And I knew at once . . . from the cut of his chin, the shape of his nose, the red of his lips, and the curl in his hair, that he was Byron’s son.

  “Robin, this is Lily. She is the new Warden of Arcadia,” Ianthe said. Robin froze in the doorway as if he were made of stone. “Lily, this is Robin . . . my son.”

  With my eyes locked on Robin’s, his green gems boring into my very soul, I found that it was now my turn to laugh. George. My love. My passion. Dearest George. What have you done?

  “SORRY,” ROBIN SAID, DROPPING HIS eyes to my bare feet. “These must be yours then,” he added, handing the slippers to me. He did not meet my eyes again.

  “Thank you. They slipped away from me.”

  “I’ll go . . . out . . . the wood,” he said then turned to go back outside.

  “Wait, Robin. It’s getting late. Take Lily to the Warden’s Manor. Get the lamps lit for her and the fire banked up,” Ianthe instructed then turned to me. “We can continue our discussion in the morning. You’ve had a long voyage. After a night’s rest, we can talk again.”

  I frowned. I really didn’t want to talk more, and I really didn’t want to stay there, but I sure as hell wasn’t ready to go back to London. I grabbed my satchel then followed Robin out of the cabin.

  “This way,” Robin said, leading me into the woods.

  I stopped to slide the still-wet slippers on. My feet were aching. I cursed myself for not thinking to stop in Edinburgh to pick up a pair of boots. I walked silently through the woods behind Robin. He was quiet. He was not rude. Rather, he seemed lost in his thoughts. As I walked, I looked him over. He was tall like Byron, built much the same, save he seemed more athletic. He had the muscles of a woodsman. His skin was not luminescent the way Byron’s had been, but was tanned from working outside in the sun. As I walked, I shook my head. I felt like my mind was ripping apart. I couldn’t wait to smoke some opium.

  Robin led me to what was the most unusual looking building I’d ever seen—if you could call it a building. In reality, the manor was carved out of the craggy side of a mountain. The door had been worked into an opening in the rock. Someone had fashioned stained glass windows to fit the holes in the rocky boulders. The manor looked to be about three stories in height. On the top floor, someone had chiseled space for clear glass doors that looked out over the forest.

  At the door, Robin fished a key from his pocket. The key he held was a flat copper piece with punched holes just like the one that had opened the fairy box. Wordlessly, he stuck the key in the lock. With a succession of clicks, the door sprung open.

  “Let me light some lamps,” Robin said then went inside.

  Cool, earthy air effervesced from the place. It was very dark inside, but after a few minutes, cheery, orange light glowed from within. I went inside.

  The manor was, in fact, a cave. The space had been widened in some places; small rooms had been carved from the natural pockets of the cave. The floor, walls, and ceilings were stone. The space did not flow like a normal house. Rather, it moved with the natural curve of the hollow hill. Inside the manor, the décor was remarkably modern. Had Byron furnished the space? And there was ample evidence that Archibald Boatswain had once lived there. Clockwork devices of a myriad of functions sat on almost every table. As I passed through what looked like a study at the front of the manor, I was surprised to find a framed, hand drawn picture of the Stargazer. In the corner of the drawing was Byron’s signature. I reached out and touched the image. I could almost sense his ghost there beside me, grinning madly.

  Behind me, Robin cleared his throat. He was also looking at the drawing. “That’s your ship.”

  “The Stargazer.”

  “I saw the engraving of you in the newspaper, when you leapt from the airship. Weren’t you afraid?”

  “I didn’t have time to be afraid.”

  “You just jumped . . . without thinking it over?”

  “Sometimes the right thing to do is obvious.”

  Robin smiled then. When he did, his cheeks dimpled in a way I had never seen Byron’s. “Let me show you around,” he said then led me to the back of the manor. “There are large boulders in front of the cave. That’s where the door and the windows are. A mason sealed up the spaces between the boulders and the cave inside the hill,” he said as he pointed to the lines in the walls and ceiling. “In the very back, there is a door leading deeper into the mountain.”

  We went to the back of the manor. A flight of stairs carved into the stone led upward. At the foot of the stairs, I saw a round, locked door leading into the cave. It unnerved me. On the second floor were two very large rooms. Both were oval in shape, but someone had worked the floor until it was flat. And both had been transformed into bedrooms.

  “This room gets better light,” Robin said then, referring to a room on the more northern side of the house. It boasted two stained glass windows that cast a kaleidoscope of color onto the stone floor. Pristine white blankets covered a large bed. “I banked up the fire for you,” he added then looked bashfully away.

  I smiled at his shyness. “Thank you.”

  He guided me to a ladder that led to the third floor. “Do you mind?” he asked, motioning to the ladder.

  I laughed and shook my head. “I’ve been barefoot for at least a week and more than three thousand miles. I’m in trouble if a ladder fouls me up now.”

  He grinned then crawled up. Once he reached the top, he lent me his hand. It was rough and strong. I felt callouses made by hard physical labor.

  “Wow,” I said when I finally got my footing.

  “This is my favorite room too,” Robin admitted.

  The roof was concave. Roots from a very large tree growing overhead trailed down the wall. Nestled into the roots were small purple flowers. At the front of the room were double glass doors that Robin opened. A warm breeze filtered in. In the center of the room was a large, round, ancient-looking wooden table. It had been intricately carved along the edges. I set my satchel down on the table and stared at its centerpiece, a cylindrical glass and copper case. Within the case was a tall sword mounted upright. The glow of the leaves outside cast a reflection, making the sword glimmer with green light.

  “What is this place?” I whispered, turning back to Robin who stood looking outside.

  “It is an unusual manor, but all of the Ward-”

  “No. What is thi
s place?” I said, motioning toward the window. In the distance, little puffs of smoke rose from Ianthe’s cabin.

  Robin stared out at the forest. “How many times have you flown over this realm? Haven’t you ever felt it? The ancient energy? The fey lines flow between the old, sacred spaces. The remnants of our ancient world. Britannia. Here, we are drawn to her breast,” he said then looked at me.

  Why did I always get tangled up with mystics? I didn’t mean to, but I frowned. I tried to wipe the expression from my face, but I was too late. He’d seen.

  Robin looked away. “Anyway . . . I’ll stop in later to check on you,” he said then moved to leave.

  “Robin,” I called apologetically. I had not meant to hurt him or be dismissive. I wanted him to know that while I understood what he meant, I lived . . . in the real world . . . in the city . . . with the newest steam machines and airships and gaslamps and clockwork devices and lots and lots of people. What he was talking about was something I had felt before. I knew what he meant, but it was not a feeling I knew well or had ever embraced. When I turned toward him, however, I found him standing at the table looking into my bag.

  He lifted the fairy box and turned to me. “Where did you get this?” he asked. He’d gone absolutely pale.

  “It was . . . given to me.”

  He set the box down and stuck his hand into my bag again, pulling out my hat. He looked at the lily pin.

  “Robin?”

  He looked up at me, a strange mix of anguish and anger on his face. Robin then stormed from the room, dropping down the ladder with a jump. A moment later, I heard the front door of the manor slam shut. I looked out the window to see him stalk off into the woods, my hat and pin crushed in his hand.

  I PULLED OUT A CHAIR at the massive table. After rooting around in my bag for a few minutes, I found everything I wanted: my opium pipe, a fresh supply of the dried herb, and Byron’s cologne. I lit the pipe and went back to the window and sat down. I smoked deeply, my hands shaking, fearing Robin’s anger, fearing Byron’s reasons, just . . . fearing. I leaned my head back and watched the trees turn to silhouettes against the early evening sky. I couldn’t get lost fast enough. I uncorked the cologne and inhaled deeply. My heart longed for what was lost. I smoked again, taking in as much as I could, then waited. It wasn’t long before I began to drift. I thought about Ianthe’s words and watched the moon move slowly across the sapphire-blue sky. A chill crept into the air. I smoked the pipe, then another, then decided to search the place for alcohol. Surely I could find something to drive the pain away. Surely I could bury it.