Bindings (4 page)

T
IM SANK ONTO THE BOULDER AND
kicked a pebble. “Gone. He's just gone,” he muttered.

I don't get it. I passed his stupid test. So why would he leave me out here to fry? Oh. Because this is a test, too
, Tim realized,
a big one: to get myself home.

As much as Tim hated to admit it, even to himself, he wanted to do well on this test. He wanted that Tamlin bloke's respect.
Besides, it is bloody hot in the desert, and as bad as gym class and Ravenknoll Estates may be, I don't want to die here. After all I've been through recently, that would be a dumb way to sign out
.

Tim tried to remember details from adventure films about surviving in the desert.
First thing, cover your head
.
Don't want to go all heat stroke-ish.
He removed his sweatshirt and wrapped it around his head in a kind of turban.

He looked at the clothing Tamlin had left
behind. “So he's abandoned you, too,” Tim said to the leather coat.

That has got to be expensive
, Tim thought. He lifted up the coat.
Oof.
It weighed a ton.
Forget about bringing it to Bertram's Used Clothes Emporium to fetch some pocket money
. No way was Tim going to lug that hefty item around in the desert.

The boots were far too big for him—no use there. He stared at the gauntlet and the knife. He shook his head. “Another bloody test.” He decided to leave them behind. He had no need for hand-me-downs.

He gripped the amulet that Tamlin had given him. “Which way?” he murmured, studying the landscape. The stone grew warm in his hand. Startled, Tim wondered if the rise in temperature was due to his own body heat warming it or if it had responded to his question.

Tim looked at Tamlin's large footprints in the sand, which ended at the pile of clothes. He figured his way back home was not going to be in the same direction Tamlin had taken. Tim stepped into the deep impressions, facing the opposite way.

Tim shut his eyes and concentrated on the stone. It was smoother and rounder on one end than the other, like an arrowhead, only it wasn't
flat. Would it answer his question?

“Which way?” he asked. This time he said it loudly, as if he were demanding an answer.

The stone grew warm again. Tim took a step. Then he turned right and took several more steps. Now the stone's temperature dropped. He hastily returned to his original spot. Once again, the stone grew warm.

“Like that kids' game,” Tim realized. “Getting warmer, getting colder.” Holding the stone out in front of him like a compass, Tim began making his way through the desert.

Nothing about his surroundings reminded him in the slightest of Faerie. The land he had visited was lively and beautiful, filled with lakes, trees, valleys, and creatures of all variety. There were smells and sounds and crisp, clean air. Here was…nothing. Grit. Dust. Silence. The only sounds were Tim's raspy breathing and the crunching noise his feet made on the pebbles underfoot. The only smells were his own sweat and gravel, and the air felt heavy.

Tim trudged on. He was getting thirsty. There were several problems with that. First, there didn't seem to be any water around. Second, if this strange, sad place
was
Faerie, then he couldn't eat or drink anything here anyway or he would be trapped forever. It was one of the rules of the
place. But he didn't know how much longer he could last. The sun was starting to set, so at least it would cool down. But the wind was picking up. The breeze chilled the sweat coating his body.

Tim had to stop. He sank to his knees. He was starting to shiver with hunger, fatigue, and maybe even fear. He held the stone
. I wish I was home
, he thought.
Now.

And he was.

T
AMLIN KNELT DOWN AND SCOOPED UP
a handful of red sand, allowing it to sift through his fingers. He picked up a dead tree branch and placed it in the small leather sack he had retrieved after returning to human form. The twigs were signs of withering.
Evidence my lady would deny
, Tamlin thought
, as she denies all she finds disturbing
.

Still crouching, he scooped up another handful and this time filled his sack with the sand.
What's out of sight is out of mind for my lady
, he mused.
She sees only what pleases her. She has such an ability for this that she still sees Faerie as a lush paradise—filled with natural wonders. She literally can't see the dust—she can't see what Faerie has become.
Tamlin shook his head. He wished sometimes that he could do the same.

“Falconer!” A voice called out behind him.

Tamlin slowly turned his head but didn't bother getting up. “Mazaran,” Tamlin greeted the Queen's courtier. “I didn't know you spoke to mortals.”

“My Queen requires your presence, Falconer. I believe she is angry with you.”

“Is she? She'll be angrier soon.”

“Spare me your insolence. Move. Now.”

“Wait.” Tamlin felt the sharp edge of Mazaran's blade on the back of his neck.

“Wait for what?” Mazaran demanded.

“For the wind to shift.” Tamlin scooped up more sand. “There!” He tossed the sand into Mazaran's face.

“Aggh!” the courtier cried. His hands flew to his face, and he stumbled first to his knees and then to the ground.

“Dog's son,” Mazaran cursed. “You've blinded me.”

“So I see,” Tamlin replied. “But it's only sand, Mazaran. Cry for a while and when you're done, you'll be no blinder than you've been all your life.”

Tamlin turned his back on the Faerie courtier. “Pity the elf lord,” Tamlin called out to the empty landscape, “vanquished by dirt.”

Tamlin threw his head back and held out his arms. His body shimmered and shrunk: arms into wings, feet into talons. Feathers sprouted where once there was only skin. Tamlin discarded his
human shape as easily as his clothing—once again transforming into a falcon.

His wings pumped, taking him higher and higher into the sky while the courtier still lay sniveling on the ground. The freedom of flight was exhilarating and Tamlin never tired of it.

Mazaran is like all the rest of his Faerie kindred
, Tamlin thought as he soared toward the Queen's castle.
Arrogant. Contemptuous of mortal kind. And like all the rest of them, prone to overlooking the obvious. Until some scapegrace like me throws it in his face.

Tamlin saw the turrets of the castle beyond the next rise. In Tamlin's eyes the rolling hills had lost their green luster, but he knew that most of Faerie's inhabitants—perhaps all—saw only lush green carpets of grass and flowers. Tamlin saw the truth, while the Fair Folk saw an illusion.

It is the way of the Fair Folk to veil the real with enchantment
, Tamlin thought.
They cloak all that is drab or dull or flawed with spells of glamour
—
and so now they cloak the reality of what Faerie has become in the same way.

Tamlin knew that to the Fair Folk, as something was, it always would be. Nothing ever changed. The ability to see reality and to change was man's magic.
My magic,
Tamlin thought. He was aware that one day this trait could be the
death of him. Perhaps that day would be today.

Am I giving you what you want, Titania?
he wondered.
Will my truth provide you with an excuse to cut off my head for treason? No matter. I do what I must.

Ah, Titania.
Tamlin circled the palace grounds searching for the Queen, the twig he had retrieved earlier in his beak.
I wish there were a gentler way to shake the sleep from your eyes. I warned you that the borderlands were crumbling, but you laughed and dismissed me. The decay has worsened, milady. And I can't be gentle any longer.

He spotted Titania below, asleep on one of the settees on the back terrace. He would wake her now. Once and for all.

Titania's long hair spread out on an embroidered pillow, her elegant gown draped fetchingly. Tamlin landed and worked the change that transformed him back into a man. He removed the branch from his mouth and held it in his hand. “Wake up, Titania,” he said. “I've brought you a gift. Something you're not often given. Truth.”

Titania's ever-changing eyes fluttered open. They were a deep violet now, still heavy with sleep. “You're raving, Falconer,” she murmured. “I find it tedious.”

With a demure yawn, she sat up and leaned against the cushions. “What is this present you
said you brought me?”

“Truth,” Tamlin declared, “a truth even you should find difficult to ignore.”

Titania raised a disapproving eyebrow. “You have worn a bird's shape for too long, Falconer,” she scolded. “You've forgotten gentle speech, it seems. And clear speech as well.” She gave an impatient shrug. “I fail to see your meaning or your gift.”

“Patience, lady. You will see it soon enough.” He held out the branch to Titania.

“Fool! Do you think I should be so dimwitted as to accept a gift from you?”

“If you will not take my gift then I must force you to accept it,” Tamlin said as he flung the branch at her feet. Then, quickly, more quickly than Titania thought possible, Tamlin became a hawk again.

As she watched him soar toward the horizon, she detected a change in the atmosphere. Something was happening. The sky became dark and ominous, clouds roiling overhead.

He thinks this will impress me?

“Tamlin,” she called, taunting him. “You woke me up for this? A storm? If you only knew how dull these sullen little dramas make you. How predictable you've become. You think—”

This is no storm
, she realized with growing
horror. As she gazed out over her kingdom, the very lands themselves shriveled, writhed, and died. Her beautiful green grass faded into a dry, dusty brown. The trees in the orchards, their limbs laden with glorious bounty, were suddenly bare, the fruit rotten and petrifying on the patchy ground.

Realizing that the “truth” he brought her was represented by the stick, she kicked the twig violently.

“Is this your gift to me, my love?” she shrieked to the darkening skies. “Is this your truth? This devastation?”

She sank, weeping, to her knees. She clutched the marble railing, leaning her head against it for support. “How could you do this?” she moaned. “
I
may have brought you sorrow, but the
land
brought you only peace. I cannot understand you, Tamlin.”

She threw back her head defiantly. “But know this,” she declared to the air. “Faerie's reach is long. You'll find no haven. You will tell us why you have murdered Faerie…before you die.”

The Queen's voice faded as Tamlin made the arduous journey across worlds. His thoughts were full of Timothy Hunter as he soared above the gray London skyline.

If you had a child of heart and spirit, with the
potential for power,
Tamlin thought,
and you wished to confine him to a prison where his heart's fire would be trapped and his spirit's wings would shrivel, and you sought to ensure that his potential would remain potential only, you could do no better than to leave him in this city.

Tamlin was not one for cement, high-rises, and caverns created by steel towers. The noxious fumes spewing from the urban setting made his wings feel heavy with soot and grime.

Tamlin alighted on a tree outside Timothy Hunter's window, his talons clinging to a snowy branch. His sharp movements sent shivers of snow to the ground.
But be it in heaven or hell or any of the thousand realms between, no prison can truly cage a child of earth if the spirit of the child lives
, Tamlin thought. He remained perched in his spot, observing Timothy Hunter.

You've known deprivation, child
, Tamlin reflected,
but have you ever suffered true hunger, endured real thirst? Sheltered as you are, what have you ever had to fear? What have you ever loved and fought for, won or lost? What can you know of courage?

What are you, Timothy Hunter, and what must I do to wake you?

T
IM MADE IT BACK ALIVE
from the strange desert, and no one had even noticed that he had been gone. School was school, Dad was Dad. Coach Michelson was the tiniest bit nicer to him. That was the only thing that had changed. Molly was absent the day he returned, and although he didn't have to face her after his ridiculous display on the field, he missed having her to talk to.

After school, Tim sat up in his room, writing in his journal.

 

Today at school old Henderson said that no one really knows what holds the world together. And nobody knows why everything doesn't just fall apart. And the weird bit is that the stuff that DOES fall apart, falls apart because it's not moving.
As long as those molecules and atoms keep zipping around, everything's dandy. But stop and—kapowie. It's all over.

Old Henderson calls that entropy.

Maybe that's what's wrong with Dad. He stopped moving when Mom died. So now he's falling apart. Because of entropy.

I think it really comes down to love and fear. Only nobody talks about love and fear in science. Love could be the stuff that keeps things moving so they stay together. Fear is the stuff that makes things hold so still they fall apart. And sometimes you can have both of them inside you, pushing and pulling you around and that's when you cry or laugh. Dad cries and laughs when he's watching telly. That's what the telly is about, mostly. Somebody trying to make you cry or laugh.

 

Tim read over his entry.
Well, that sounds stupid,
he thought. Gripping his pencil, he added,
I don't know what holds the bloody world together. Unless it's magic.

He put down his journal. He needed to move; he was too restless to stay cooped up inside.

“I'm going out for a bit,” he called to his dad as he headed for the front door.

“Don't stay out too late,” his father replied, never taking his eyes from the television. Dad was obviously back to his same old self.

The door banged shut behind him. Timothy wandered through a snowy London. The weather had turned brisk and chill—a far cry from that desert wasteland he'd been taken to.

What was that all about?
Tim wondered.
How did I manage to get home?
He fingered the amulet he had in his pocket—the stone that Tamlin had given him.
What did that bloke mean, that I was somehow the key to healing Faerie? How could that be possible?

If I can magic myself home, why can't I magic Yo-yo back to me? Clearly there are volumes I don't know about magic.

Tim came across a deep imprint in the snow. “Oh, poor angel,” Tim said. “I don't suppose you'll be going anywhere with those wings. They're a bit too small for flying, don't you think?” He studied the stunted snow angel. “I don't know how anyone could have gone and left you like that. All mutated looking and all. But they did.”

Tim considered lying down in the snow to
create a greater wingspan for the snow angel, then decided against it. He'd look a daft fool. Snow angels were for little kids.

He wandered further. He peered into the window of a pet store, looking at the woeful puppies, their big eyes begging to be claimed. “Sorry, little fellas,” he said to the puppies. “Me and my dad can barely take care of ourselves. No sense in bringing a puppy into that environment.”

He heard a loud clang behind him, and all the puppies started barking hysterically. Tim turned to see an enormous hawk perched on an iron fence nearby.

Tim backed up against the pet store window. The bird was huge and powerful, and it gazed at him unblinking. It sent shivers of recognition through Tim.

“You,” Tim declared. “It
is
you, isn't it? Where are your knives and nets and creepo sidekicks? Are they out lurking in the snow somewhere?”

The bird stared, silent.

“What do you want with me this time?” Tim demanded. “Another test? Well, get lost. Leave me alone.”

The bird lifted off and flew away.

Tim stared after the bird, surprised that it had listened to him. Then he regretted sending it away.

He dashed after the bird. “You could at least
have told me what you wanted,” he called up to it.

He followed the hawk to a parklike square with benches and trees and bits of snow-covered lawn. The soaring bird circled, landed, then to Tim's amazement, transformed into a man.

A
naked
man!

Tamlin.

“It
is
you,” Tim exclaimed. Then, blushing, he glanced around. “Err. Turning into birds is one thing. But you can't just walk around London naked. Even if it weren't freezing outside.”

“That's why we're here. Come with me.”

“You think you can find a wardrobe in the park?” Tim asked. Everything had once again turned seriously strange.

A few yards away a homeless man sat on a bench surrounded by shopping bags. The man wore a battered khaki jacket with lots of badges pinned to it. His nose was pierced, and his thick full beard was gray and white. He had a scarf wrapped around his bald head, and thick newspapers were tied around his feet instead of shoes. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he rubbed them to stay warm.

“Good morning, Kenny,” Tamlin greeted the man. “Can you lend me something to wear?”

So this bird-man from Faerie knows a homeless bloke in London.
Tim thought.
Why not?

“Aww, no, no, my friend.” Kenny's voice was rough and gravelly, as if he weren't used to speaking. “Where would I be now if I was lending things away all the time? It's all about business. You have been away so long you have forgotten. This world will suck the juice out of you if you lose sight of business.”

“Then we will come to terms,” Tamlin replied.

Kenny rummaged through one of his shopping bags and pulled out a pile of rumpled clothes. He held them out to Tamlin. “Don't put on those socks until I find you some shoes.” Kenny went back to searching through his bags. “You're a boot man, aren't you?”

To Tim, the bags didn't look large enough to hold men's boots, but Kenny produced a pair. “Now let me tell you what I want,” he told Tamlin as the hawk man pulled on the boots. “I have had enough of being snowed on today. I need a respite from this weather.”

“Ask Tim,” Tamlin said, lacing up his boots. “He's the magician.”

“What?” Tim asked, surprised. “Are you suggesting I do something about the weather? Me?”

“You may know nothing, boy, but you're no less a magician for all that.”

Tim's hackles rose. Did Tamlin say he was stupid? Sure, Tim himself had just been thinking
how little he knew about magic, but it was one thing for Tim to think that about himself and quite another for Tamlin to say it!

“Magic is
in
you,” Tamlin continued. “And magic responds to need. Not your need alone. Anyone's.”

“Now you sound like some mad New Ager,” Tim scoffed.

“And you sound angry,” Tamlin countered. “Why? Because I said you know nothing? Be angry with me then, but look. Look at Kenny.” Tamlin placed a hand on Tim's shoulder. Tim braced himself for more rough handling, but he felt only a strong guiding hand turning him to face the homeless man. “Kenny is old. You wouldn't believe me if I told you how old.”

“I might,” Tim muttered.

“He's mad as a March hare but he's a good man. And he's cold.”

Tim looked at Kenny. Now that Tamlin had pointed it out, he saw that Kenny
was
old. And on top of that, his teeth were chattering, his skin was taking on a bluish hue, and his shoulders were hunched up around his ears. The chubby old guy had given Tamlin what he needed, and all he wished for was to be warm. Tim wanted to help him, but how?

Tim looked up at the sky. The snow was
falling even harder now. It was beautiful but chilling.
Strange how something so pretty could make someone so unhappy
, Tim thought. He could feel his hair getting damp, and his toes tingled as the snow seeped into his shoes. Kenny must be truly miserable with his newspaper-swaddled feet and thin jacket.

But what could
he
do about it? Changing the weather was an impossible request. Tim held out his arms. “Look at all this snow. I can't!”

Tamlin released Tim's shoulder and stepped back. “How would you know what you can or can't do without trying? When was the last time you attempted anything that could embarrass you?”

This took Tim aback. What was Tamlin talking about? Then he remembered—he'd run out of the football game because he had felt humiliated in front of Molly. He wouldn't even try for the ball for fear he'd make a fool of himself. A little while ago he had wanted to lie down in the snow and extend that snow angel's imprint, but wouldn't let himself because he didn't want to seem like a foolish kid. How many other things did he avoid doing just because he was afraid of making a mistake—or being laughed at?

How long had Tamlin been watching him?

There was a challenge in Tamlin, but it wasn't a cruel challenge. He wasn't taunting him.
Somehow Tim knew that even if he made a whopping mistake, he wouldn't be laughed at—he'd be encouraged to try again. Tim sensed that, in an oblique way, Tamlin was trying to help him take some kind of step forward.

“Okay!” Tim declared. He shut his eyes and held out his arms wide.
Go away snow
, he thought. Nothing.
Snow, begone!
The snow was still falling. For good measure, he added fancier words—this was magic, after all—
Snow goeth far from here. I banish thee, snow, to…to…to wherever it is that snow comes from
.

It was no use. The snow was still landing on his hair, his face. His shoulders slumped as he lowered his arms, defeated. He couldn't meet Tamlin's eyes, afraid he'd see disappointment there. “I—I did try,” he said.

“Yes, you did,” Tamlin said. “I could feel your effort.” Tamlin's voice was gentle. Tim felt the man's hand on his back. “Now tell me this: If I told you I was thirsty, would you fetch me a river?”

Tim glanced up at Tamlin's face. “That's a stupid question. Of course not.”

Tamlin smiled.

Tim smiled back as he understood what Tamlin was saying. “Ohhh,” Tim said.

Tamlin nodded back. “There's no need to carry a river, is there? Not when a cup will do.
Now, try again. I'll help you.”

Tim was eager to try again. He faced Kenny, uncertain of how to start.

“Lace crystals are falling everywhere,” Tamlin said. “Feel them.”

Tim concentrated, allowing himself to truly feel the snow as separate, delicate things instead of a massive clump of wet cold.

“They drift down, feathered wheels of ice,” Tamlin crooned.

Nothing was happening. It was too hard. “They're everywhere,” Tim protested. “How can I do anything about that?”

“Not everywhere,” Tamlin corrected. “Between them there is space. Space curls between them, dances above and around and below them. Take that space. Feel it. Shape it.”

Tim felt his hands rise unbidden, as if there were energy coursing through him, guiding them. He sensed the air between the ice crystals. He forced the space to open up, spreading the feathered wheels of frozen water apart. He never touched the flakes themselves with his mind; instead he worked on the space in between, just as Tamlin said.

He saw Kenny grin. “That is a fine boy you have there, Tamlin. Take care of him.”

Tim's jaw dropped. Snow was still falling all
around, but none was falling on Kenny. It was as if Kenny moved in a protective bubble that the snow could not break through.

Excited, Tim turned to Tamlin. “Did you—”

“Did I help you?” Tamlin grinned. “No.”

“I—It felt like—like tying a knot but not with my hands.”

“You did well, Tim. Very well.”

It felt great to hear this strong and self-contained man say that.

“What you've done, you've done with your own power,” Tamlin assured him. “That binding was your work, not mine.”

Tim could not contain the broad smile spreading across his face. Pride of accomplishment made his skin tingle with warmth despite the snow.
I did it
, he thought
. Incredible. I did it for real. I worked magic. I made something happen.

“Tam,” Kenny said. “If you want the accessories, you come get them.” He held out a hat and a leather gauntlet. “It was some trouble finding the right things,” he added, “but I would not want you to feel cheated.”

Tim wondered what was going on. How could Kenny have known what Tamlin would need? Did he know that Tamlin was going to show up in London naked?

Tamlin looked down at the hat in Kenny's
outstretched hands but made no move to take it. Tim stamped his feet to keep warm.
What's taking so long?
It couldn't be because Tamlin didn't like the hat Kenny had picked out for him. Tim didn't imagine Tamlin was concerned about style.

“Don't you crook those eyebrows at me, old bird,” Kenny scolded. “This is just the hat for you. Sure as oysters have pearls. So take it and motivate yourself out of here. Fast, my friend. Fast as you can.”

“I'll take the hat and the gauntlet. That's all,” Tamlin said. “Not the gun.”

Gun?
Tim's head whipped around. Tamlin was placing the hat on his head while Kenny slipped something into one of the many shopping bags that surrounded him. Why would Kenny have offered Tamlin a gun?

“Wh-what's going on?” Tim asked.

Tamlin strode toward him, slung an arm over Tim's shoulder, and started him walking. “It's time for us to go.”

Tim craned his neck, trying to look back at Kenny. “You didn't even tell him good-bye.”