Fair Peril

by Nancy Springer

  Emily saw it too. “Mom, do something!”

  “Like what?”

  Adamus’s otherworldly face was so pale and translucent that Buffy could see the white, winglike angles of his lovely cheekbones, the blood pumping dark in his temples, the Queen’s mark on his forehead pulsing to the same panicky drumbeat.

  That raw mark. How could she have done such a thing, putting her brand on him?

  Impulsively Buffy stepped toward him, captured his head gently between her hands—the texture of that golden hair between her fingers, hot and silky as sunlight, was like nothing else she had ever felt—and drew him toward her so that he bowed his head. Just because it was the motherly thing to do—to make it better—she kissed the red mark on his forehead.

  She felt the change before she saw it, through her hands.

  There was a jolt, like electricity, or a twinge, and then the texture of his hair was just—hair. As satisfactory and normal as a horse’s mane. Buffy’s startled hands let go of him, and she stepped back, wide-eyed. The mark was gone from his forehead. Utterly gone. So was the sheen of golden glamour. So was his eerie, extravagant beauty. And so was his fear. A freckle-faced young hazel-eyed man looked back at her, quizzical, as if to say, What the hell are you doing, lady?

  “Addie?” Buffy whispered.

  Yes, it was him, all right. In some ineffable way Buffy recognized the clownish mouth that was quirking into a smile. Only a person who had once been a frog could own such a droll mouth. But other than that, he was just a nice-looking kid, nothing special. A few pimples. Hair the same khaki color as his eyes. He wore a faded purplish chambray shirt, blue jeans, running shoes that had probably been white once upon a time.

  He said, “Did I ask you to kiss me?”

  “Uh, no, not really.” Hastily Buffy stepped back, although there had been no tinge of challenge or rebuke in his tone, just bemused inquiry.

  In the same polite, bewildered way, he inquired, “What did you call me? Addie?”

  Buffy nodded.

  “Is that my name? Do you know me?”

  Butty’s mouth sagged open and stayed that way; she couldn’t say a word. Beside her stood Emily, similarly incapacitated.

  Addie—or this new creature based on Addie—could see that they were flabbergasted. “I guess I’m being a dork,” he said cheerfully. “See, I can’t remember. Don’t know where I am. Don’t know how I got here, and—” A sudden wide, whimsical smile. “And I sure don’t know why I feel so good, ’cause I ought to be upset, shouldn’t I? Considering that I can’t remember a blame thing.”

  Emily got her mouth moving first. “But you do feel okay?”

  His smile, unbelievably, spread yet wider. “I feel fantabulous.”

  “Then maybe not remembering is better.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged, looking around him happily, taking in the bright sights of the mall like a child at a carnival. “So, do I know you people?”

  “I’m Emily, and this is my mother.”

  He offered his hand to Buffy. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—uh—”

  “Murphy.” Buffy managed to get herself functioning, though her voice croaked. She shook his hand. “Buffy Murphy.”

  Emily put in, “You’re, um, you’re my boyfriend.”

  That smile of his would have lit up a dark winter night and warmed it too. “Really?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “You look way too sexy to have a boyfriend named Addie.”

  “Adam,” Emily said. She reached around him with easy familiarity and pulled a wallet from his back jeans pocket. She opened it and showed him his driver’s license. “There. Adam Prinz. See?”

  “Hey!” He regarded his own unflattering mug shot with huge satisfaction. “There I am. And there’s my birthday. And that’s my address, right?”

  Peeking at the address, Buffy saw that it was hers. “Hoo boy,” she said.

  “Right,” Emily said. “C’mon, we were just heading there. Right, Mom?”

  “I released him,” Buffy said, “and now I get to rehabilitate him, is that it?”

  “Don’t ask me, Mom.” Emily rolled her eyes and started walking. Her putative boyfriend followed. Sweet kid. Buffy barefooted along rapidly in her hideous caftan, watching Addie from behind as he gazed all around him. More than sweet; he was an innocent, like a newborn. And he had the right attitude. It was not a half-bad world, really, with sunshine sifting down through the tinted-glass domes and a robin flying around. It looked like the thing was nesting on one of the pedestals. Oh, goodness. Oh, wow. It was a wonderful world; the damn bird was nesting in the frog king’s crown, pooping on his fat verdigris face. Hallelujah, there was justice in the universe.

  “You’ve lost weight, Mom,” Emily remarked.

  The kind tone, the smile, the compliment, from Emily, felt so wonderful Buffy could barely speak.

  “Thanks,” she managed. “Good.”

  “Huh?” Adam turned in surprise. “What’s good?”

  “I’ve lost weight.”

  “But—” His mouth faltered and his hazel eyes lost focus as he struggled to chase down what he wanted to say. “But—why do you want to lose weight? I mean, back in the—” He looked disoriented, almost frightened, but he struggled on. “In the Middle Ages, or, like, you know, the Renaissance, women were supposed to be big, you know? Like you.” He blushed and looked down at the floor.

  With force and clarity as if a white snake had bitten her, Buffy did know. She knew several things at once. She knew that Adam almost remembered but did not quite remember that he had been Adamus d’Aurca, a Prince of Fair Peril, a thousand years old instead of eighteen. She knew that he almost remembered but did not quite remember that he had been Addie, her frog and her pet. She knew with an exaltation of her heart that she had been beautiful to him.

  She knew that he had loved her.

  She knew that his almost-memories would quickly fade.

  She knew that it was better that way.

  “Adam,” she said firmly, “you’re quite right. I’m big and I’m gorgeous.”

  Adam threw back his head and laughed. His just-born joy rang through the mall like golden bells. People turned their heads to smile at him.

  “Gonna take that boy in hand,” Buffy said to Emily or anybody who happened to be willing to listen. “Gonna take that boy home and feed him soul cake.”

  Bent like a fishhook, Mom shuffled across the nursing-home lawn, her hands dragging the grass like grappling tackle. “Must get it done,” she droned. “Must get it done.”

  “Mrs. Murphy!”

  But the poor child all gussied up in white was as worn out with this nasty world as she was. Young innocent dressed in white like a bride for the slaughter. Zipping up old men’s flies for them. The poor little white lamb wouldn’t come after her right away. Stayed sitting on the patio with the old poopieheads.

  “Mrs. Murphy! Don’t go so close to the road!”

  It was time. Mom’s hands, as brown and gnarled as tree roots, rose up suddenly like praying mantis claws. Like a turtle, Mom lifted her head to peer out from under her hunchback, scanning the unimagined distances across the street. Recklessly she lurched forward, forcing her feet to accelerate until her thick-soled oxford shoes were shuffling double time, swishing her cotton skirt.

  “Mrs. MURPHY!” The nurse’s voice rose to a shriek.

  “Enough is enough,” Mom panted as she labored at top speed off the edge of the lawn, onto territory unexplored, the sidewalk. “Enough is enough.”

  “Stop her!” the nurse yelled as something whizzed by—a boy on a bicycle. But he could not stop her. His rude stare and his churlish comment did not faze her; his trajectory dangerously close to her did not interrupt her progress. The nurse came running—Mom could hear the silly young thing’s screaming drawing nearer, but did not look. No time. Had to keep the feet moving, one a weenie length ahead of the other, then the other a weenie length in front again. Keep moving. She had to get there.

&
nbsp; “Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.”

  She could see it just a few feet ahead, the cliff, the edge of the conceivable world, painted yellow because there was no parking here, near the corner. The curb.

  “MRS. MURPHY!”

  The sheepie-white nuisance was almost upon her. Mom ignored her, turning her face to the street. Against her straining cheeks Mom could feel the hot winds as the many-colored lightnings flashed up and down that abyss; she could hear them roar. But she was not afraid. Rather, her lumpy old heart was pounding loudly with excitement. For a turtle in the spring it is time, or for a frog, and for her also it was time to cross to the other side.

  She never hesitated. It is of no use to tread carefully when it is time to cross. Never breaking the rhythm of her escape, she moved her right oxford forward its condign six inches. Its heavy toe caught in the crack betweeen the curb and the sidewalk. Mom pitched forward.

  Then there were screechings, and then a lot of windy noise and many bright lights. But no pain, absolutely none. Not that she would have minded pain. Not at all. But it was nice this way. Mom listened to the whirling winds and watched the colorful lights and smiled. She had done it. Finally she had done it. She had run away.

  Was she across? She didn’t really know. But no matter what happened now, she was free. She was free. She would never have to listen to him again.

  Buffy barged in singing, “Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you, if you’re Jung at heart.…”

  “Stop it,” LeeVon complained. “Quiet in the library.”

  With a flourish, she laid upon his desk the green-covered book she was returning. “I don’t need this anymore,” she said not very quietly. “Hey. Have you heard the latest spooky story the kids are telling? About the web-footed bouncing, jingling monster lurking Grendel-like in the fountains at the mall?”

  LeeVon said starchily, “No, I have not.”

  “I understand they just released that poor cop from the wacky ward last week.”

  “Stop it, Best Beloved.” LeeVon squeezed his head in his hands, disarranging his black leather, bunny-studded headband. “Not everybody cherishes these contretemps as gleefully as you seem to.”

  “It’s just that I’m feeling so much better.” Buffy perched her large blue-jeaned posterior on the edge of his desk and spoke more gently. “So are you ever going to tell me all about that guy who kissed you?”

  “No, I am not going to tell you.” Suddenly as smug as she was, LeeVon looked up at her and smiled; like ethereal angel laughter, his facial rings chimed. “His name is Richard. Draw your own conclusions. I will tell you that I still haven’t gotten my bike back.”

  “I haven’t located my car, either. And I’m out of a job. And my insurance doesn’t cover the wacky ward. Isn’t the collective unconscious fun?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. It’s a blast. How’s Emily?”

  “Good. Emily’s terrific.” Buffy smiled hugely just at the thought of Emily. “She’s a lot more connected than she used to be. We’re a lot closer.” Buffy’s smile grew bemused. “She won’t talk about what happened, though.”

  LeeVon understood instantly. “Good for Emily,” he declared. “Neither will I.”

  “Spoilsports.”

  “Sane persons, that’s all.” Firmly LeeVon moved the conversation onward. “How about Addie? Are he and Emily still an item?”

  “I’m not sure.” Buffy’s smile shifted into a minor key. “Did I tell you?” Of course she hadn’t told him. It had just been decided. But she was trying to be casual. “Addie’s moving out.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows levitated.

  “Yeah. Soon.”

  “Did he find his own place?”

  “Not exactly.”

  LeeVon sat waiting for the rest of it.

  “He’s going looking,” Buffy said.

  “I take it you are not speaking of apartment hunting?”

  “You take it correctly. I visualize him as heading west. Riding into the sunset.”

  “He’s on a sort of Prinzly quest?”

  “Exactly. He wants to find out who he is.”

  “Ah.”

  “He’s not unhappy,” Buffy added. “He hasn’t been unhappy at all, just curious. Interested. And now he’s downright excited.”

  “Good.”

  “I just hope he won’t be disappointed.”

  “He won’t.” LeeVon sounded quite certain. “Tell him to come here first, for a guidebook.”

  “Like heck I will.”

  “But you should. He will find out all he needs to know if he does. Maybe not quite the way he expects, but it will happen. You found out who you are, didn’t you, Maddie?”

  “Huh,” Buffy said.

  Emily told no one about Fair Peril, but it was on her mind all the time like a theme song. She hugged it to herself like a good secret, like when she was a child and she had found a place under the lilac bush in the backyard where there were truly blue stones. No one but her was allowed there. Certain places were precious. They were personal. Fair Peril was that kind of place. None of her mother’s business—not because it was bad, but because it was beautiful. She pondered Fair Peril in her heart, but she did not miss it, because it was still with her.

  Adam was going away, but he would still be with her.

  The night he told her, she took the news gravely, but knew that her heart was not broken. Yes, she realized, talking it over with a stuffed armadillo late that evening, yes, she would miss Adam—but true comrades know that they will meet again. Besides, she had things to do. A new job, in the Express store, that required lots of clothes. Scads of reading to do for Advanced Placement. Swimming parties to get ready for. In addition to all of which, she and her girlfriends were collecting fuzzy stickers in their sticker albums while they plotted the overthrow of the Western world.

  Still … this time of night, when Prentis and Tempestt wanted her out of their way … it would be nice to have somebody to talk to besides a stuffed armadillo.

  Emily smiled suddenly and reached for her phone.

  “Hi, Mommy. Did I wake you up? No, nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking, you’re really going to miss Adam, aren’t you? Yeah, so am I. Listen, after he goes away, could I move in with you? Would you like that? You sure? Good. So would I.”

  “So, any idea at all where you’re going?” Buffy asked Adam as the kid settled into the used Mustang that had gone on her MasterCard. He needed a haircut, but she refrained from mentioning it, only noticing silently that his drab hair protruded messily from under his Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. He had jammed the thing on his head either to hide the fact that he needed a shampoo or to prevent her from kissing him, or simply because he habitually wore a baseball cap indoors and out. Along with stonewashed jeans, slang, wallet, and driver’s license, Adam had come equipped with a complete complement of male teenage attitudes. And with charm. And more than enough testosterone. And a good heart.

  He had come with everything but memories.

  She had known him only for a few weeks, and now he was going.

  She stood by the car with arms folded. Adam said with his usual immense cheer, “I got no clue,” but then he looked at her, and his smile dislimned into an unusual seriousness. He sat without starting the car, gazing intently at her.

  He was, Madeleine knew, a test she had to undergo, administered to her by whatever devious storyteller was in charge of these things. So far, she had passed. He had lived in her house and she had been a friend and a mother to him, nothing more. She had not competed with her daughter for his time or his affection. She had not courted him, she had not made him feel that he was indebted to her, she had not constrained him to love her, she had not constrained his heart in any way. She had set him free, and she was letting him go.

  Gazing at her, he said slowly, “I think I’ll be heading toward water. A lake, a wild river, maybe one of the oceans, I don’t know.” His hazel eyes shifted focus to look far beyond her, still intent. �
��There’s something about water,” he said very softly. “I don’t know. I think it would be cool to get down in the water. Look up at the surface like at a sky all different glass colors.”

  He hesitated and glanced at her to see if she understood at all. She did; she understood more than he knew. She nodded at him to go on.

  “Look up at the surface, look down at the bottom,” he said, his gaze slipping away from her again. “Slugs and stuff. Swim around down there. Sneak up behind a fish or something. Sneak up under a duck and goose it. Or maybe you’re the one with something after you, maybe there’s something bigger than you down there. Maybe at night. Might be scary. But maybe the fish shine at night. I think it would be beautiful.” He glanced at her almost as if looking for her approval. “I think I gotta find the right lake or whatever and then I want to learn to dive. Be a frogman or whatever.”

  Buffy tried to keep most of what she was feeling from showing in her face. He did not know he was remembering the beauty and peril of being a frog; he thought he was sharing a dream with her. And in that he was no different than anyone. How do any of us know where our dreams come from?

  She said, “Let me know when you find it.”

  “I will.”

  “Keep in touch.”

  “Yeah. That too.” Now he was focused on her again, looking up at her from the driver’s seat. Quite abruptly, he said, “You saved me from something, didn’t you?”

  She stood gulping air like a fish. Oh, God. His first memory was of her kissing his forehead; he was not stupid, he had to wonder, he had to know there were things she was not telling him. But so far, he hadn’t pressed her for answers—

  He still didn’t. He said quietly, thoughtfully, “I was so damn happy to be—just to be. Still am. Happy like a hog in mud. I think—whatever came before—must have been pretty awful. I think maybe I better not know. Better not remember.”

  Buffy succeeded in shutting her mouth. She nodded and stood back.

  “Well, I’m outta here.” He adjusted the mirror.

  “You going to say good-bye to Emily?”

  “Did. Last night.” He leaned forward and started the car. “It’s not like I’m not gonna be back,” he added, eyes on the road. “Heck, you two couldn’t fight me off with a stick.”