Unthinkable

by Nancy Werlin

  The whole time, hardly a step or two away, danced the elfin lord, tense, unsmiling, and expectant.

  At one point the music changed and the dancers paired off, and then she was caught close to the lord, forced to take his hand and feel his too-long fingers fold around hers, feel his body curve close to hers. She kept her eyes level with his shoulder, not looking up. Her heart had been pounding so frantically for so long that she had stopped hoping it meant she would soon collapse and die.

  He whispered in her ear, “I shall love you forever.”

  If he had been human, she would have known him for a madman. If there had been people she recognized around her, she would have known how to demand help. If she had not been sunk deep in shock and terror and grief, she would have found some way to break free.

  At last the music changed, softened, and Fenella’s feet ceased to move. She turned, and so did everyone else. She found herself moving into a perfect circle around a female creature so tall that Fenella had to blink in astonishment. The female wore a crown of flowers on her long hair, hair composed of dozens of colors that were all to be found in nature, though never together. The yellow of a bee’s fur; the russet of a fox’s pelt; the white of a dandelion gone to seed; the shiny black of a songbird’s eye. The female’s hair fell in waves that looked alive against her skin, skin that glowed green in the moonlight, skin formed from leaves.

  The circle around her bowed as one. The elfin lord jabbed an elbow into Fenella’s side. “It’s the queen. Dip your head. Curtsy.”

  Fenella did, belatedly.

  Near the queen stood her attendants, equally strange and beautiful. Something drew Fenella’s attention to one of the attendants in particular, and a moment later she realized that she was responding to the elfin lord: His gaze kept flickering between the queen and this attendant. It was as if he was trying his best to avoid looking at the attendant, but could not help himself.

  He had a strange expression on his face, a mixture of longing and hate.

  Compelled, Fenella studied the attendant. She was small, the top of her head as high as Fenella’s elbow. She had human limbs and face; she had pale, glimmering skin and floating reddish hair only a shade lighter than Fenella’s; she had insect wings that sprouted from her back; and she had the delicate, pointed ears of a fawn. In fact, she looked precisely as a faerie should look, according to the tales.

  But there was another striking feature about her, and it was her expression. The half-size faerie had, quite literally, the sweetest, kindest face that Fenella had ever seen.

  Then the fawn-faerie turned her head, as if she felt Padraig’s gaze on her.

  Smiling vaguely, she looked right through him.

  Chapter 38

  Ah, said Ryland, nodding his furry head. Yrenne. The Mud Creature’s mother. Now, this is where my memory starts to fit in with yours. I remember the Mud Creature pulling you forward in front of the court. I was with the old queen that night too. You don’t remember seeing me? I was an extremely cute cub.

  “His mother?” said Fenella, shocked.

  Didn’t you know? You haven’t seen Yrenne since? Odd.

  She’s never been one to miss a party.

  “Maybe not, but I am,” Fenella snapped. “Anyway, yes, I’ve seen her since. Although not lately, I suppose. But she’s never paid any attention whatsoever—and Padraig never said—his mother? Are you sure?”

  Of course I’m sure. Everyone knows.

  Fenella said slowly, “I thought she was just another female who had rejected him.”

  She had felt sure of this, because Padraig spoke often about Yrenne. He said something every time he saw her, as if he couldn’t help it. That Yrenne has the brains of a blade of grass, he would say. Or: That Yrenne is certainly looking her age. Or: Someone ought to slap that Yrenne. If there had been any concept of sluttishness in Faerie, he would have spoken about that too. He had certainly been known to comment on how frequently she changed lovers. She did reject him, said the cat, stretching. Yrenne left the egg by a mud pond to hatch or not, as it pleased. She never looked back. The Mud Creature raised himself.

  Fenella felt as if her head had been snatched off her body and then restored, backward. Eventually, she managed, “But didn’t he at least have a father—or fathers— to take care of him?” She had chosen her least confusing thought to utter.

  Ryland’s voice was noticeably patient. No. The Mud Creature is not one of us. Obviously. He must have some human father. Some long-dead half-wit who stumbled on the Midsummer Revels, I would imagine. He waved a paw. Don’t ask me for the specifics. Only Yrenne would know, and no doubt she has long forgotten.

  Fenella was aghast. It must have showed in her face, because Ryland squinted at her and added: You humans are so sentimental about young. For what it’s worth, I’m sure Yrenne—if she thought about it at all—believed her egg would not survive. These mistakes rarely do.

  Especially if you abandon them, Fenella thought. “But when he did survive—surely—” She waved a hand aimlessly. “Surely someone should have taken responsibility? For a child?”

  Why? Ryland was genuinely puzzled. Who would want the Mud Creature?

  She could not get over it. “But a child—”

  He shrugged. He should never have been viable. Really, it’s rare. At the least he should only have had a human lifespan. Every single year he’s lasted has been a surprise, and he’s only gotten more annoying over time. Then there was what happened during the crisis. Nobody really minded him stealing power in the old days, but when it was scarce, it was not acceptable. He simply did not conduct himself like one of us. “Well, no wonder,” Fenella said tartly.

  Really, Fenella, this is an excess of concern, especially coming from you. It’s not as if the Mud Creature treated you well. The cat stretched out his front paws. You really didn’t see me at the ball? Truly, I was an adorable cub. Everybody said so.

  “No,” said Fenella flatly. “I didn’t see you.” She felt flummoxed. Should she have known about Yrenne? Yet how could she have, if Padraig had not told her? She talked to no one else except the tree fey, and that had been later, and she couldn’t imagine them being concerned about Padraig’s parentage. Any more, apparently, than Ryland was. The other point was, however, that she would never have asked Padraig about his parentage, even if she had thought of it. She had never wished to express any curiosity about Padraig at all.

  She asked slowly, “When did all of this happen? When was Padraig born?”

  Several years before me, in the early reign of the old queen. “The queen your mother. Who did not abandon you in the mud,” Fenella said nastily, she knew not why. Her mind filled with puzzle pieces that she didn’t want to fit together.

  One question pressed at her. “How old was Padraig when he kidnapped me?”

  I don’t know exactly. The cat’s tail crooked irritably. “But if you were a cub at the ball, and he was born several years before you—was he—was he around my age? Seventeen, eighteen?” She waited tensely.

  That would be about right, I suppose.

  Fenella inhaled sharply. She had always thought Padraig ancient, steeped in evil. Had he really only been her own age?

  Why are you asking these questions? Does it change anything?

  “No,” said Fenella after a moment. “It changes nothing. He did what he did.” She put a hand to her head and rubbed her temples. Fenella thought of all the years of terror. Of Robert and Bronagh and all the Scarborough girls, suffering, dead. “You’re correct,” she said. “It changes

  nothing.”

  Right, Ryland said. Now, go on with your story. We were at the ball. You noticed the Mud Creature looking at Yrenne, and then, what?

  “He pulled me forward before the court,” said Fenella.

  “Before the queen. There was an argument.”

  The elfin lord’s voice cut across the music, which ceased abruptly and discordantly. He spoke words in a language Fenella did not understand. He yanked Fenell
a to the center of the clearing before the queen and the fawn-faerie and the others. He held his head high, arrogant.

  The faces that turned to them were surprised, and amused, and also scornful. These others said more things that Fenella did not understand, but she felt the elfin lord’s hands tighten almost cruelly on her. Those hands were on her shoulders; he held her before him like a prize on display.

  The queen said something. She smiled; a dismissive smile.

  Quickly, urgently, the elfin lord spoke again. There was something different, portentous, about the timbre of his voice. His hands burned cold, right through the fabric on Fenella’s shoulders. Pain shot through her and then dizziness. She would have fallen if he were not holding her.

  And then all at once she felt strangely, weirdly, well.

  The queen’s eyes turned to slits. She drew herself up to her full height. Her voice crackled like thunder as she spoke.

  The elfin lord seemed angrier now too. Angry and also righteous. He said more words. The queen shook her head. The elfin lord said something else, and the queen shrugged. This went back and forth for some minutes.

  Fenella turned her head to follow the conversation, or argument, even though the language was strange to her. She was aware of the queen’s attendants looking at her in the same way you would eye apples at market that might prove wormy.

  Then the queen looked directly at Fenella and spoke. It took Fenella a few moments to realize she was being addressed in English, and a few more to disentangle clear meaning from the sibilant music of the queen’s accent.

  “He has brought you here to be his bride. But I perceive you are with child by someone else. In nine months, you will bear a human daughter.”

  The elfin lord sucked in a shocked breath. Fenella could not see his face, but she felt his rage flame.

  Hope flared in her. She was indeed pregnant! And somehow this queen knew that it was a daughter.

  “Yes.” Her voice came out strong and vibrant. She held herself straight. “It is the child of my true love.”

  “So you are not here voluntarily?”

  “I am not. The lord”—she was unable to interpret the expression on the queen’s face at this—“murdered my lover and kidnapped me.”

  “She belongs to me,” interjected the elfin lord. “I took her. I choose her for my bride. Is that not the way of the court? The strongest do whatever they want?”

  Fenella held her breath.

  She felt the elfin lord holding his as well.

  The queen drawled, “No. It is not. The girl must have a chance of escape.” She eyed Fenella up and down. “A fair chance. An artful chance. A chance that will entertain us all.” Her gaze moved to the elfin lord as she finished. “Devise a riddle! Show us what you can do. We’ll even loan you some power to do it, if you haven’t enough of your own.”

  The court laughed.

  The elfin lord let go of Fenella. He bowed deeply.

  At this point—and this was something Fenella could comprehend in any language—bets were laid, all around.

  “Then,” Fenella said, “then Padraig cursed me and my unborn daughter. There was much laughter. Yes, I was quite the center of entertainment at court that night.”

  Not really you, said the cat mildly. The Mud Creature. He smiled, showing his teeth. Though, as you have already said, knowing that changes nothing in the game you must now play. Does it?

  Fenella rubbed her eyes wearily. “No.”

  You still must go forward.

  “I will.” She felt confused, so confused, but at the same

  time grimly determined. Perhaps the queen had been right, to send Padraig so that Fenella had to see him, talk to him. There was one more task. She would do it. All the horror would not matter then, because, at long last, she would die.

  Chapter 39

  In the human realm, it was late afternoon. Half the bright, withering leaves still clung stubbornly to the trees, but the other half had fallen to the ground to be blown about and scuffed underfoot. As Fenella walked, she tried to avoid stepping on the leaves.

  Fenella had Ryland draped so that his body lay in her arms while he faced backward over her shoulder. Her only concession to disguise was a shabby gray cap that Ryland had nosed out on the street. She had tucked up her hair under it.

  Perhaps she wanted to be found, she thought. But though she had seen one police car, it had driven sedately past her.

  Before returning, she had spent an hour discussing the third task with Ryland, but Fenella had not found an obvious solution. Hope was a slippery concept.

  Also, the more time passed, the more anxious Fenella became, thinking of her family and of what they were going through. It was unbearable not to know what was happening. Yet now that she was in the human realm, she could not imagine how she might find out.

  Part of her wanted simply to go to her family and tell them about the tasks. But her mind went blank when she tried to think out the repercussions. She could hardly ask them to volunteer ideas for ways in which she might destroy them.

  She moved slowly down a wide, attractive street lined with maple trees. People were out and about, but she looked to the trees. These maples were not sentient like the tree fey, but perhaps they were aware of her passing. She longed to think so. She put a hand on the bark of an especially large maple. She stroked the tree, running her fingers over its trunk, admiring the ridges that showed how it had grown. This tree was not so very old, perhaps a hundred years, and it was strong and alive and so beautiful.

  She thought about taking one of its leaves that had fallen to the ground, of putting it in her pocket. But if she had been worthy of even that small comfort, she would still have her own leaf. So she did not.

  She walked on. As twilight fell, she found herself in a town center crowded with stores clustered around a parking lot. It looked familiar; perhaps she had been here before. She had a vague memory of Miranda walking beside her, talking.

  To her left, next to the parking lot on an island of green, grew a thick little copse of trees. Instinctively Fenella stepped closer, stooping beneath the low branches. She found herself in a sweetly private bower, big enough only for the empty park bench placed invitingly there.

  This was not a private spot, of course. It was at the edge of a parking lot, and when Fenella squinted through the leaves, she could see the lot and its cars outside. She could hear them too. But still, somehow, the screen of trees made the little shelter feel private, and she realized it would be difficult, especially in the growing darkness, for people outside to see in.

  She sank down thankfully on the bench.

  Ryland curled up in her lap with his eyes closed. Fenella stroked him and watched the lights of the cars in the parking lot. Cars came and cars went. Gradually more cars went than arrived, and the lot emptied. The streetlamps came on. The footsteps of the people on the street sounded less frequently. Fenella thought about getting up and moving on, but she still didn’t know where she would go or what she would do.

  And it felt safe and sheltered on the bench within the trees. Even peaceful. Absently, she put one hand up behind her and touched the rough bark of the trees. Oak. She let her fingers linger a long moment, caressing.

  Full dark settled in. The streetlamps outside the bower gave sufficient light to see by.

  Destroy hope?

  In her lap, Ryland’s body rose and fell with his breath. Maybe he really was asleep.

  “As long as there is something that you want, you would still have hope,” Fenella muttered aloud. “To have no hope would mean you have no energy left to want anything. How can anybody want nothing? Even when I was with Padraig, there were still things I wanted. Things I hoped for. Even now, at this moment, I want. That means I hope. Doesn’t it? Can you want without hope? No. You cannot. When I want death, I hope for death. Right?”

  In Fenella’s head, Ryland’s voice stirred.

  “I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

  For hop
e would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love

  For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith

  But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

  Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:

  So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.”

  “What?” said Fenella.

  Ryland repeated the words.

  “But what does it mean?”

  She felt Ryland shrug. Human poetry. A man named T. S. Eliot. Did you think you were the first to ponder these questions? Ryland’s breathing resumed the even tenor of sleep.

  Fenella wondered about this poet who had tried to school himself to hopelessness and lovelessness; who had placed all his faith in waiting. The stillness the dancing. That sounded quite fey. No wonder Ryland liked it.

  But the lines of the poetry did not, to her, sound hopeless. For who could dance and remain entirely without wanting, entirely without hope? This particular poet, perhaps? No, for his poem was an attempt to instruct himself in hopelessness. It was not success.

  How long she sat on her bench trying to be still and wait without hope, Fenella never knew. At some point she closed her eyes. Feeling shielded by the trees, she might even have slept. But suddenly, someone sat down heavily on the bench beside her.

  Instantly her body knew who it was. Her eyes snapped open. Her skin tingled, and her fingers went cold, even buried as they were in Ryland’s fur.

  She felt afraid to look at Walker Dobrez, but there he was. Beside her. Saying nothing. But she could tell that nothing inside him was quiet.

  Eventually, she turned her head to him. There was enough light to see that his brown hair hung ragged around his ears instead of in its usual neat ponytail. The expression in his eyes was hard. He lifted one large hand and she saw that he held in it an oak leaf. Fenella’s hand went to her mouth.