The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making

by Catherynne M. Valente

  “But surely you’re bigger than the Marquess. Couldn’t you say no? Squash her or roast her or something?”

  A-Through-L marveled. His mouth dropped open a little. “What a violent little thing you are! Of course, I’m bigger, and, of course, I could say no, and, of course, in the days of Good Queen Mallow, this would never have happened and we’re all very upset about it, but she’s the Marquess. She has a hat. And muscular magic, besides. No one says no to her. Do you say no to your queen?”

  “We don’t have a queen where I live.”

  “Then I’m sorry for you. Queens are very splendid, even when they call themselves Marquesses and chain up poor Wyverns. Well, very splendid and very frightening. But splendid things are often frightening. Sometimes, it’s the fright that makes them splendid at all. What kind of place did you come from, with no queens and bad fathers and Anna-Marees?”

  “Just one Anna-Marie. I come from Nebraska,” September said. Home seemed very far away now, and she did not yet miss it. She knew, dimly, that this made her a bad daughter, but Fairyland was already so large and interesting that she tried not to think about that. “It’s very flat and golden, and my mother lives there. Every day, she goes to a factory and works on airplane engines because everyone’s father left for the war, and there was no one left to make airplanes. She’s very smart. And pretty. But I don’t see her much anymore, and my father went away with all the others. He said he would be safe, because he would be mainly learning things about other armies and writing them down, not shooting at them. But I don’t think he’s safe. And I don’t think my mother does, either. And the house is dark at night, and there are howling things out on the prairies. I keep everything as clean as I can so that when she comes home she’ll be happy, and tell me stories before bed, and teach me about boilers and things that she knows.” September rubbed her arms to keep warm in a sudden breeze that kicked and bucked through the field of little red flowers. “I don’t really have many friends back home. I like to read, and the other kids like to play baseball or play with jacks or curl their hair. So when the Green Wind came to my window, I knew what he was about, because I’ve read books where things like that happen. And I didn’t have anyone to miss, except my mother.” September wiped her nose a little. “I didn’t wave good-bye to her when we flew away. I know I ought to have. But she goes to the factory before I’m awake in the morning and just leaves biscuits and an orange on the table, so I thought maybe I wouldn’t say good-bye to her, since she doesn’t say good-bye to me. I know it was vicious of me! But I couldn’t help it. And, really, she leaves little notes with the biscuits and sometimes funny drawings, and I didn’t leave her anything, so it’s not fair at all. But I don’t want to go home, either, because there aren’t gnomes and witches and wyveraries at home, just nasty kids with curly hair and a lot of teacups that need washing, so I will say I’m sorry later, but I think it’s better to be in Fairyland than not in Fairyland on the whole.”

  A-Through-L carefully put his claw around her shoulders. His talons quite dwarfed her. She wrapped her arms around one and leaned against it, the way she might have leaned against an oak trunk back home.

  “Except … things are not all well in Fairyland, are they? The witches’ brothers are dead, and they’ve no Spoons, and your wings are all chained and sore—don’t say they aren’t, Ell. I can see where they’ve rubbed the skin away. And can I call you Ell? A-Through-L is so very many syllables. Things are not right here, and I haven’t even seen a proper Fairy at all, with glittering wings and little dresses. Just sad folk and no food. And that’s more than I’ve said to anyone in forever, even the Green Wind. I do wish he had been allowed to come with me. I believe I am sick to death of hearing what is and is not allowed. What is the purpose of a Fairyland if everything lovely is outlawed, just like in the real world?”

  “How poor you are, September. You make my heart groan. I know about Homesickness. It begins with H. What will you do?”

  September sniffed and straightened up. She was not one to feel sorry for herself for long. “Mainly, I am going to Pandemonium, to steal the Spoon that belongs to the witch Goodbye, so that she can cook up the future again and not feel so sad.”

  A-Through-L sucked in his breath. “That’s the Marquess’s Spoon,” he whispered.

  “I don’t care if it is! What a dreadful person the Marquess must be, with her ugly chains and her bow and her silly hat! I shan’t feel at all bad about stealing from her!”

  The Wyverary drew his huge foot back and settled down on his haunches just exactly like a cat, so that his face was on a level with September’s. She saw now that his eyes were kindly, not fearsome at all—and a beautiful shade of orange.

  “I am going to the City myself, human girl. After my mother was widowed, my siblings and I went each our separate ways: M-Through-S to be a governess, T-Through-Z to be a soldier, and I to seek our old grandfather—the Municipal Library of Fairyland, which owns all the books in all the world. I hope that he will accept me and love me as a grandson and teach me to be a librarian, for every creature must know a trade. I know I have bad qualities that stand against me—a fiery breath being chief among these—but I am a good beast, and I enjoy alphabetizing, and perhaps, I may get some credit for following in the family business.” The Wyverary pursed his great lips. “Perhaps we might travel together for a little while? Those beasts with unreliable fathers must stick together after all. And I may be a good deal of help in the arena of Locating Suppers.”

  “Oh, I would like that, Ell,” said September happily. She did not like to travel alone, and she missed the Leopard and her Green Wind fiercely. “Let us go now, before the sun gets low again. It is cold in Fairyland at night.”

  The two of them began to walk west, and the chains around the Wyverary’s red wings jangled and clanked. September was not even so tall as his knee, so after a little while, he let her climb the chains and ride upon his back, sliding her sceptre through the links. September could not know that humans riding Marvelous Creatures of a Certain Size was also not allowed. A-Through-L knew, but for once he did not care.

  “I shall amuse you along the way,” he boomed, “by reciting all of the things I know. Aardvark, Abattoir, Abdication, Adagio, Alligator, Araby…”

  CHAPTER V

  THE HOUSE WITHOUT WARNING

  In Which September Measures the Distance to Pandemonium, Receives a Brief Lecture in History, Meets a Soap Golem, and Is Thoroughly Scrubbed

  September bit into a fat, juicy persimmon. Well, something like a persimmon. Rather larger, greener, and tasting of blueberry cream, but it looked terribly like a persimmon, and so September had resolved to call it that. A-Through-L still worried a poor tree, which was so tall and stubbornly thick that no small girl could ever have hoped to climb it, even if she had known that there was fruit up there in its yellowy-silver branches. Still, if a dragon—a Wyvern—brings it to me, September thought, it’s dragon food and not fairy food at all, and no one should blame me for breakfast. September insisted she was full between peals of laughter, but the Wyverary seemed to delight in charging the tree with a cheerful snarl and smacking into it full force until the helpless fruit gave up and came tumbling down. After each blow, A-Through-L sat back on his enormous haunches and shook his head, sending his whiskers a-flying. The sight of it kept September laughing helplessly, her skirt tumbling-full of oozing, green-orange, blueberryish persimmons.

  The sun hitched up her trousers and soldiered on up into the sky. September squinted at it and wondered if the sun here was different than the sun in Nebraska. It seemed gentler, more golden, deeper. The shadows it cast seemed more profound. But September could not be sure. When one is traveling, everything looks brighter and lovelier. That does not mean it is brighter and lovelier; it just means that sweet, kindly home suffers in comparison to tarted-up foreign places with all their jewels on.

  “How far is it to Pandemonium, Ell?” yawned September. She stretched her legs, flexing the bare toe
s of her left foot.

  “Can’t say, small one.” The beast thwacked into the tree again. “Pandemonium begins with P, and, therefore, I don’t know very much about it.”

  September thought for a moment. “Try ‘Capital’ instead. That starts with C. And Fairyland stars with F, so you could, well, cross-reference.”

  A-Through-L left off the nearly persimmon tree and cocked his head to one side like a curious German shepherd. “The capital of Fairyland is surrounded by a large, circular river,” he said slowly, as if reading from a book, “called the Barleybroom. The city consists of four districts: Idlelily, Seresong, Hallowgrum, and Mallowmead. Population is itinerant, but summer estimates hover around ten thousand daimonia—that means spirits—”

  “And pan means all,” whispered September, since the Wyvern could not be expected to know, on account of the p involved. In September’s world, many things began with pan. Pandemic, Pangaea, Panacea, Panoply. Those were all big words, to be sure, but as has been said, September read often, and liked it best when words did not pretend to be simple, but put on their full armor and rode out with colors flying.

  “The highest point is Groangyre Tower, home of the Royal Inventors’ Society (Madness Prerequisite), the lowest is Janglynow Flats, where once the Ondines waged their algae wars. Common imports: grain, wishing fish, bicycle parts, children, sandwiches, brandywine, silver bullets—”

  “Skip to the part where it says, ‘I Am This Many Miles Away from a Girl Named September,’” suggested the girl helpfully.

  A-Through-L grimaced at her, curling his scarlet lips. “All books should be so accommodating, butler-wise,” he snorted. “As you might expect, the geographical location of the capital of Fairyland is fickle and has a rather short temper. I’m afraid the whole thing moves around according to the needs of narrative.”

  September put her persimmon down in the long grass. “What in the world does that mean?”

  “I … I suspect it means that if we act like the kind of folk who would find a Fairy city whilst on various adventures involving tricksters, magical shoes, and hooliganism, it will come to us.”

  September blinked. “Is that how things are done here?”

  “Isn’t that how they’re done in your world?”

  September thought for a long moment. She thought of how children who acted politely were often treated as good and trustworthy, even if they pulled your hair and made fun of your name when grown-ups weren’t around. She thought of how her father acted like a soldier, strict and plain and organized—and how the army came for him. She thought of how her mother acted strong and happy even when she was sad, and so no one offered to help her, to make casseroles or watch September after school or come over for gin rummy and tea. And she thought of how she had acted just like a child in a story about Fairyland, discontent and complaining, and how the Green Wind had come for her, too.

  “I suppose that is how things are done in my world. It’s hard to see it, though, on the other side.”

  “That’s what gnome ointment is for,” winked the Wyvern.

  “Well, we’d better be at it, then,” said September. “At least I shall have no trouble with the shoes.” She kept a persimmon or two for a late lunch—the pockets of her smoking jacket were quite full, yet the jacket was quite sensitive about its figure and did not bulge in the slightest. A-Through-L squirmed down to the ground to allow her to climb up onto the bronze lock, where September sat pertly, clutching the wiry red stripe of fur that ran down the Wyverary’s long neck. She drew her sceptre from the belt of the smoking jacket and extended it to the horizon like a sword. Blue mountains rose on either side of their path, shining and faceted like lumps of sapphire.

  “Onward, noble steed!” she cried loudly.

  Nothing much happened. A few birds catcalled and trilled.

  As the two of them travel along, I shall take a moment’s pause, as is my right. For it deserves remarking that if one is to obtain a monstrous companion, a Wyvern—or a Wyverary—is really a top-notch choice. Firstly, they rarely tire, and their gait is remarkably even, considering the poultrylike disposition of their feet. Secondly, when they do tire, they snore, and no ravening bandit would dare to come near. Thirdly, being French in origin, they have highly refined tastes and are unlikely to seek out unsavory things to eat, such as knights’ gallbladders or maidens’ bones. They much prefer a vat or two of truffles, a flock of geese, and a lake of wine, and they will certainly share. Lastly, their mating seasons are brief and infrequent, and the chances of experiencing one is so small as to be beyond the notice of any native guidebook or indeed the concern of any small girl with brown hair who might be utterly innocent of such things. Truly, the latter hardly bears mentioning.

  September knew none of this. She knew only that A-Through-L was huge and warm and kind and smelled like roasting cinnamon and chestnuts and seemed to know simply everything. The rest of the alphabet held considerably less charm once she saw the world from her perch on his back.

  A-Through-L walked late into the afternoon. The alpine grass full of little red flowers gradually turned into a wide, wet valley, full of rich chocolate mud and bright iridescent flowers nodding on pearly stalks taller than September. September tried very hard to look intrepid on her beast’s back, and Ell tried on a look of grim determination. It did not seem to be moving Pandemonium any closer to them. After a long while, she tucked the sceptre between two links of chain and laid her cheek against Ell’s back. Perhaps a city takes a long time to rouse in the morning when it has not had its breakfast yet, she thought. Or perhaps it has other young girls to tend to first.

  And then, suddenly, a house rose up before them, as though it had been crouching in wait for hours and sprang out when it thought it might scare them most. It looked much like a Spanish mosque—if a giant had firmly stepped on it. All the curly door frames and tiled mosaics were broken and leaning, each blue-green wall propping up the other. Fragrant red wood lay about in rough piles, and pools of seeping black mud dotted the halls. Moss covered every shattered pillar. September and her Wyverary stood before a beautifully carved archway leading into a little courtyard, where a shabby fountain gurgled valiantly. The arch read:

  THE HOUSE WITHOUT WARNING

  “What is this place?” breathed September, climbing down the Wyverary’s red flank. She was becoming quite agile at it.

  A-Through-L shrugged. “Too many W’s,” he whispered. “If only my brother were here!”

  “It is my mistress’s house,” came a thick, wet voice behind them.

  September turned to see a most curious lady standing serenely on a patch of tile depicting a great blue rose. The woman stood in the precise center of the rose. A rich, clean perfume surrounded her in a light pinkish haze, for the woman was carved entirely from soap. Her face was a deep olivey-green castile, her hair a rich and oily Marseille, streaked with lime peels. Her body was patchwork: here strawberry soap with bits of red fruit showing through, there saffron and sandalwood, orange and brown. Her belt was a cord of hard, tallowy honey soap, her hands plain-blue bathing soap, and her fingernails smelled like daisies and lemons. Her eyes were two piercing, faceted slivers of soapstone. On her brow someone had written TRUTH in the kind of handwriting teachers always have: clear and curling and lovely.

  “My name is Lye,” the soap-woman said. A few bubbles escaped her mouth. She was utterly still. No soapy muscle trembled. “It is my part to welcome you, to show you to the baths, to tend to you and to all weary travelers, until my mistress returns, which will not be long now, I’m sure.”

  “Why does it say ‘truth’ on your forehead?” asked September shyly. She could be quite brave in the presence of a Wyverary, but tall and lovely ladies made her shy, even if they were made of soap.

  “I am a golem, child,” answered Lye calmly. “My mistress wrote it there. She was marvelous clever and knew all kinds of secret things. One of the things she knew was how to gather up all the slips of soap the bath house patrons le
ft behind and arrange them into a girl shape and write ‘truth’ on her forehead and wake her up and give her a name and say to her: ‘Be my friend and love me, for the world is terrible lonely and I am sad.’”

  “Who was your mistress, Lye?” said A-Through-L, settling into the courtyard as best he could, his feet crunched up against a broken pillar. “She sounds like someone who spends a lot of time in libraries, which are the best sorts of people.”

  Lye sighed—her bayberry soap shoulders rose and fell abruptly, as though no one had really taught her how to sigh before. “She was a beautiful young girl with hair like new soap and big green eyes and a mole on her left cheek and she was a Virgo and she liked a hot bath first and then a very cold one right after and she always went barefoot and I miss her. I am sure she did spend a lot of time in libraries, for she was always reading books, little ones she could hang from her belt and regular ones with garish covers and big ones, too, so big she’d lie on her stomach in their spines to read them. Her name was Mallow, and she has been gone for years and years, but I am still here, and I keep going, and I never stop because I don’t know how to stop because she said I’d never have to stop.”

  “Mallow!” cried the Wyverary, his scaly red eyebrows shooting up. “Queen Mallow?”

  “I am sure she could have been queen if she wanted to. She was marvelous clever, as I said.”

  “Who is Queen Mallow?” asked September, who felt quite left out of the excitement. “You mentioned her before. And why is there a Marquess now if there was a Queen before? It seems to me that if you want to mess about with monarchy, you might, at least, get your traditions straight.”

  “Oh, September, you don’t understand!” said Ell, curling his tail down around her. “Before the Marquess came with her lions and her great old panther with his ivory collar, Fairyland dwelt in the eternal summer of Good Queen Mallow, the Bright and the Bold. She loved us and governed with rhyming songs and cherries for all on Sundays. When she rode out on holidays, she wore a crown of red pearls the selkies gave her, and all the pookas did gymnastics just to make her laugh. Every table groaned with milk and wheat and sugar and hot chocolate. Every horse was fat. Every churn was full. Queen Mallow danced in circles of silver mushrooms to bring on the spring and apparently, before she became queen, ran a bath house.”