Where the Veil Is Thin

by Alana Joli Abbott

  “¡She is!” say the fey, using whatever body parts they have to point at you.

  If you go along with their lie, go to R.

  If you’d rather make up your own lie, go to Y.

  — CH —

  ¡RECORD THE LETTER CH!

  A fey folk is half of one thing yoked haphazardly with half of another thing. For instance, a fey may be half watermelon, and half advertising campaign that looked good during the presentation but somewhat missed the mark in execution. Or it might be half the best cursive L you’ve ever seen, and half male hagfish, lost and lonely without its enormous, monstrous better half. Or maybe it’s half a coil of rope that hopes someday to be a lasso, and half the biome at the bottom of the sea that forms from the carcass of a dead whale. You get the picture.

  When you went to grab a wineskin, therefore, you actually drank from the body of a fey who was, and remains, half wineskin and half a never-ending fireworks show.

  “The name’s Jesús,” says the half-wineskin, half fireworks-show fey.

  “I’m Rita,” you say. “¿Was that a faux pas, to drink of your body?”

  “No. But we are married now.”

  “Oh. I … didn’t mean to do that.”

  Jesús shrugs, as best a half wineskin and half fireworks show can shrug. “I don’t make the rules. And the rule is, if you drink from a fey’s body, you marry them.”

  “¿Even if by accident?”

  “¡In Fairyland, the only way to get married is by accident!”

  You phrase your next question especially delicately. “¿Is… is it okay with you? ¿To be married?”

  “¡¿Okay?! ¡It’s wonderful!”

  ¡Ah, what a relief! “¡Great! Then I think it’s wonderful too.”

  “¡But soft, dear spouse! Tell me about yourself, my, um… ¿shall I call you wife? ¿Or husband?”

  “Husband-wife, thank you. Well. I just ate my parents.”

  “¿Whilst standing in a circle of mushrooms?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  The fireworks speed up and grow more impressive. “You are a formidable husband-wife. Most humans lack the courage to eat their parents. That explains how you got here.”

  ¡This Jesús is all right! “I’m done with the human world,” you reply. “But tell me something about yourself my, um… ¿husband-wife?”

  “Please refer to me as ‘the old battle-ax,’ husband-wife. Before I was half wineskin and half fireworks show, I was half one can of PBR crushed against a hipster’s forehead, and half the word ‘foudroyant’ on the lips of the second-place finisher of a spelling bee. Irony and loss: not a good combination for a happy life. But fey can remake themselves, so I did. It’s still as hard as changing your mind, which is as hard as changing the world, but it’s not as hard as being a human like you, where every single idea needs a body of its own. How heavy and cumbersome, all that embodiment. I don’t know how you do it, husband-wife.”

  “I don’t either, my old battle-ax. That’s why I’m here. To know me.”

  “I will help you any way I can, dearest husband-wife.” Jesús sounds well and truly smitten. And that inclines you toward smitten-ness yourself.

  You look around at the fey surrounding you. “¿So, my dear old battle-ax, are the fey still planning on eating me?”

  Both the half-wineskin and the half-fireworks-show parts of Jesús inflate indignantly. “¿Eat you? ¿My husband-wife? ¡Just let them try! ¡I will defend you unto the last drop of wine in my skin!”

  Go to I.

  — D —

  “Henceforth,” say the fey, in a stentorian chorus of voices, “you shall be known, for all time, and in all places, by the name we give you now, that shall knit itself downward into your being and re-ligametize your bones. That name is: Rita.”

  ¿But what is this? ¡You remember now! “¡That already is my name!” you say gleefully, quickly sheathing Quitanombre so you don’t forget it again. “¡Thank you for reminding me!”

  “Coño,” the fey folk say dolefully. “Of all the lousy luck.”

  Go to I.

  — E —

  You undress out of your dress and fling La Ogrificadora into the sky. It doesn’t fall, but rather grows and grows, until it becomes Fairyland’s new sky. A red-with-white-polka dots sky.

  “Weird flex, Rita,” says the Queen of the Fey via your mouth, “but okay.”

  “¿My new fey form?” you prompt her.

  “Ah, yes. There’s just one more thing to consider.”

  If you recorded the letter CH and married Jesús, go to N.

  If you didn’t record CH and are still single, go to T.

  — F —

  ¡RECORD THE LETTER F!

  Your sword, named Quitanombre, the “Name-Remover,” was created when the dragón Fuegadura, with a mighty snore, accidentally snorted up the blade from the hoard on which she slept. There in her belly, it was forged anew, annealed by magic dragón-fire. The eldritch runes running the length of its blade, which once recorded the history of the world, sublimated away.

  Seven days later, Fuegadura finally passed the sword. The screams of la pobre dragón echoed throughout the countryside. So intense was her pain that she forgot her name, and that she was a dragón, and even that she was alive. And everyone knows that the second you forget to Cartesianly believe in your own existence, you disappear. Fuegadura vanished with a pop.

  ¡The people cheered! ¡They were finally free of the dragón! And then, being people, they murdered each other, fighting over her hoard, until very few remained. Someone of your lineage must have numbered among the survivors, since you have the sword now: but that ancestor’s name is lost to history, which isn’t surprising, since they stole a sword that erases names.

  You’ve never drawn the sword, since you’re fond of your name (the one thing your parents got right). But, as they say, desperate times. You brandish Quitanombre now and, careful to remind yourself that even without a name, you still believe in your own existence, say, “¡Back off, fey folk, or I shall slay you with my magic sword!”

  “¿And who are you to threaten us?” ask the fey.

  “I have no idea,” you reply.

  ¡The fey-folk—¡surprise!—love this! They cavort, caper, carouse, creep, combust, canter, cantan canciones, and, all the while, carefully, Cartesianly confirm their own qualia.

  Each fey is half one kind of thing and half another kind of thing unceremoniously thrust together. There is the fey that is half butter churn and half capybara; the fey that is half the melancholy of a misspent youth and half last-gen iPhone; the fey that is half quockerwodger and half a tornado of DaVinci notes; the fey that is half patchouli and half flock of flying mustaches, etc. They dance all around you with whatever parts they have. It’s a joyous, if messy, cotillion.

  “¿May we name you?” they ask. “¡If you let us name you, we won’t eat you!”

  If you let them, go to D.

  If you don’t, go to J.

  — G —

  ¡RECORD THE LETTER G!

  The newborn fey’s attack is eager, but clumsy. It was only just born, after all, and the sword has never had to wield itself. Plus, your pretty dress has never had to move on its own. You spare a pitying smile for the poor thing’s stumbling, preposterous salvo.

  But it is trying to kill you. With matadorial elegance, you envelop the newborn fey in your cloak, and Bibliocapa swallows it and teleports it away, and now it’s part of someone else’s story.

  You flip the cloak off your arms and enjoy the spears of cool wind striking your body. “I don’t think I know me any better,” you say, “but winning a battle makes me feel more like me.”

  “Knowing’s overrated,” the fey respond. “Feeling like yourself is all that matters. ¡That’s how we roll, and look how happy we are!”

  “Feeling’s not good enough. I also need to know.”

  The fey metaphorically and, where anatomically possible, physically shake their heads. “Fine. You’ll have to meet t
he Queen of the Fey, then. Only she can help you.”

  “Okay. ¿Where is she?”

  The fey grow reverential. Religion fills their voices. “She is all around us.”

  You look around. “¿Is she invisible?”

  The fey consider this. “Practically. She’s microscopic.”

  “Okay. Anyone have a microscope?”

  “Nope,” say all the fey at once.

  “So. Then. ¿How do I meet her?”

  All the fey with fingers hold up one finger to ask you for a moment. All the fey with noses scrunch their noses and, if they have hands, rub them. But it doesn’t stop all the fey that surround you, the scores and scores of them, from sneezing on you, all at the same time.

  You’re caught in a germy cloud of contagion. Virulent vapor sparkles in the sunlight all around you. It is the most infectious of rainbows.

  “¡Gah!” you yell, trying not to breathe. “¿Why did you do that? ¡That’s disgusting!”

  “We would appreciate,” say the fey, a little haughtily, “if you would not speak of our Queen that way. You said you wanted to meet her. Since the Queen of the Fey is half ragweed pollen and have rhinovirus, the only way to meet her is to contract her. Now, we are unified by the permanent sickness that is a monarchy. ¡Long live the Queen!”

  Go, sniffling and snuffling, to H.

  — H —

  You cough. Your nose flows. Your aching body makes you moan.

  You have clearly contracted a cold. Or maybe it’s your allergies acting up. Given that Queen is both allergen and virus, ¿porque no los dos?

  “¿Why did you make such an… unpleasant fairy your sovereign queen?” you ask, having a seat in the grass. The urge to curl up and sleep is growing more and more irresistible.

  “She is the most powerful among us,” say the fey, not without regret. A dozen fairies rush to help you to your feet. “¡Don’t fall asleep! ¡She’ll kill you if you succumb to her!”

  “A few minutes ago you were ready to eat me. ¿Now you’re trying to save me?”

  Those fey who have both a left foot and a hallux screw their big toes into the ground bashfully. “Well, you’re almost one of us now.”

  You sniffle. “¿Almost?”

  “Well, you’re half

  IF YOU RECORDED THE LETTER Q, READ THE BONUS TEXT IN THE BOX!

  sword of forgetfulness,

  IF YOU RECORDED THE LETTER B, READ THE BONUS TEXT IN THE BOX!

  library cloak,

  IF YOU RECORDED THE LETTER W, READ THE BONUS TEXT IN THE BOX!

  pretty polkadot dress,

  but you’re still half-Rita. You have to fey-ify the other half you came in with to make you fully fey.”

  “That is, Rita,” says a voice that isn’t your voice, yet coming out of your mouth, “if you still wish to become a fey.”

  You touch your face. “¿Who said that?” you ask.

  “I am the Queen of the Fey,” your mouth says, though, again, it is not you who speaks. “I am in you, and I have in part joined with you. But only in part. You still cling to your mortal half, and all the limits therein. ¿Will you shed it now and join us?”

  “I didn’t eat my parents for nothing,” you say, between coughs and throat-clearings.

  “Excellent,” the Queen of the Fey says in your voice. “Then let us begin the final transformation.”

  If you recorded the letter Q and kept your sword, Quitanombre, go to L.

  If you recorded the letter B and kept your cloak, Bibliocapa, go to P.

  If you recorded the letter W and kept your polkadot dress, La Ogrificadora, go to Z.

  — I —

  “So,” say the fey, who, though they still surround you, aren’t looking nearly teethy and hungry. “¿What brings you here?”

  “I’m tired of not knowing who I am,” you reply. “Eating my parents only removed pain. Which is nice, don’t get me wrong. But it didn’t teach me anything about myself.”

  “Oh,” the fey, who, in perfect choreography, pshaw you. “Removing pain is the most important part. Now you can think clearly. The rest is easy.”

  “¿It is? ¿Then tell me: who am I?”

  “You are two things violently cloven together.”

  You blink.

  “Tell us your halves,” the fey add, “and you’ll know the whole.”

  “Well,” you start, unsure. “I am a human woman named Rita.”

  “Good, that’s one half. ¿What’s the other?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “¡She’s half Rita, half sword!” says one factions of the fey.

  “¡She’s half Rita, half cloak!” says a second faction.

  “¡She’s half Rita, half pretty dress!” says a third.

  IF YOU RECORDED THE LETTER CH, READ THE BONUS TEXT IN THE BOX!

  “¡She’s my better half!” adds Jesús. All the fairies in fairyland take a moment to heartily congratulate Jesús and you on your marriage.

  The fey fall silent. After a while and a great deal of thought, they finally say, as one: “Too many halves. That’s why you’re confused. Get rid of two things.”

  If you keep only your sword, go to Q.

  If you keep only your cloak, go to B.

  If you keep only your pretty dress, go to W.

  — J —

  “I’ve got a better idea,” you say. “¿Why don’t you help me remember my real name?”

  “It’s pretty dangerous, that,” say the fey, in unison. “It’s one thing if you just tell us your name. Then it’s just a word, just sounds lined up in a certain order. We don’t know everything that the name’s invested in, all the history you’ve shoved into it, and probably we’ll never get to. But to derive a name. Well. We’ll have to know all about you. And then. Well. Then you’re known. ¿You sure you want us, the fey folk, to know you that well?”

  If you say “Yes,” go to X.

  If you say, “On second thought, you give me a name,” go to D.

  — K —

  “I will wear my cloak forever,” you say.

  And once you make that statement, you assume your true fey form: in less than a second you become half the most complete library in the universe and half the joyous, cozy feeling of being alone inside the universe’s most complete library.

  Your body disappears. The cloak that is you now hovers above the ground of its own accord. Omniscience courses through your entire being. Omniscience, curiously, tastes like warm apple cider.

  “¡Tell us a story!” the fey say to you, as one.

  You have no mouth and no voice, but you can make your feelings known. You spread your cloak-self open and fill Fairyland with the feeling of this question: “¿What kind of story would you like to hear?”

  “¡One where fairies eat humans!”

  You know just the thing. A book that has never been is born within your eternal folds of knowledge, and your cloak-self spread and grows to become pages so large that every fey in Fairyland can read them, even if they lack eyes.

  “Once upon a time,” the story begins, “there was a girl named Rita.”

  THE END

  TO START A NEW STORY, go to ¡.

  — L —

  “You kept Quitanombre,” you begin, but it is the Queen speaking through you again. “That means you favor discarding your history over keeping it. You will defend yourself before you forgive others. You like to bring a sword to a knife-fight.”

  “Sounds about right,” you agree.

  She sighs. “The fact is, you’d rather surf history than study it. The future, in your mind, is a lotto-ball mixing drum: any guess you make about the future is probably going to be wrong, ¿so why bother? Lotto is a sucker’s game, and so’s the future. ¿Am I right?”

  “You’re not wrong,” you reply, a little less pleased with yourself. She’s right about you. Too right about you.

  The Queen, accustomed to being too right, nods. “You are too tied to the present. You’re scarred by the past and scared of the future. You n
eed a new start.”

  “¿How?”

  “Make a present of your sword to me, and I will give you a form that will heal your emotional damage and let you contemplate the future without fear.”

  If you would rather swallow your sword than give it to the Queen, go to C.

  If you give your sword to the queen, go to Ñ.

  — LL —

  ¡RECORD THE LETTER LL!

  “You are so generous,” says the newborn fey, now named Rita, like you.

  “I don’t own Ritaness,” you reply, sheepish and pleased.

  “But look, Rita. I don’t want to get in your way. I can make it easy for both of us.”

  And with that, the newborn fey named Rita grows, just the way the dress La Ogrificadora gave you the power to quadruple in size and eat your parents.

  Only new Rita doesn’t stop growing. She grows and grows and grows. Pretty dress and cloak fill the sky. Soon, they become the sky—the firmament is now that lovely crimson color that drew you to the pretty dress in the first place, and the polka dots have become the new stars. The cloak exerts its influence, too—it organizes the polka dots into constellations from all over time and space and imagination, drawn from the stories housed in every library that ever was. Light and myth and wonder rain over you and all fey.

  “¡Thank you so much!” say the fey. “You’ve given us the gift of astronomy and astrology. ¿How can we repay you?”

  “Take me to your queen,” you say.

  “Of course,” they say.

  And then, as one, they sneeze on you.

  Imagine a foggy morning. Water vapor hangs in the air, swirls all around you. Each tiny water droplet wears a crown of rainbows bestowed upon it by rays of sunlight. That is exactly what the current mucosal fog in which you suddenly find yourself looks like.

  “¡Gross!” you yell. “¿Why did you all sneeze on me?”

  “You asked us to take you to our queen,” the fairies reply, a little shocked at your rudeness. “And the Queen of the Fairies is half ragweed pollen and half rhinovirus. So, well, now that you’re infected by her, there is literally no way we can take you any closer to her. So you’re welcome.”