Bindings (5 page)

“Tim. Come. Now.”

Uh-oh
. The Trenchcoat Brigade had sometimes spoken to him in that same brusque manner. It usually meant someone was about to try to kill him.

Tamlin picked up speed, and Tim wondered if they were being followed—and if Tamlin had a destination in mind.

Before Tim took another step, he wanted answers. He dug in his heels and skidded to a stop. “Just a minute,” he said. “You still haven't told me why you came back here. I want to know. What do you want with me?”

Tamlin stopped walking, turned, and faced Tim. His expression was serious, but he said nothing.

“The first time I met you, you kidnapped me and threatened me,” Tim continued. “You dumped me in some weird desert and flew off. And now you turn up and you—”

“Tim—” Tamlin cut him off. “Listen to me. It's dangerous to stay in one place too long. I haven't the time to explain myself fully to you here and now. I can only tell you I have come to seek your help.”

“My help?” Tim could not imagine what this powerful, intense man could need from him. “Why?”

“Because Faerie is dying.”

Tim remembered that Tamlin had said this to him before. When the man had kidnapped him and dragged him off to the desert he had told Tim that the land was dying.
But how can an entire world die
? Faerie was so beautiful, so full of life.
Though
if that desert really was Faerie it certainly looked like it was in bad shape
, Tim thought.

But even if that were true…
“How can I help? I'm just a kid.”

“You are much more than that, child, and I believe you know that,” Tamlin said. He sighed. “For you to truly understand you need to know everything.”

Finally,
Tim thought.
Now we're getting somewhere
.

“Once my world and yours were one. The lives of the Fair Folk and the lives of mortals intertwined and were interdependent. But there was a severing of those ties. A walling off. Because of that, Faerie withers.”

Suddenly, a tiny winged creature appeared and fluttered between Tim and Tamlin. “You are the master of understatement, Tamlin,” the creature said. “The place looks very much like hell.”

Tim took several startled steps backward. The creature was the size of the pretty little flitlings he had seen in Faerie at the Queen's court. But this creature wasn't pretty. He looked wild—with ragged auburn hair, pointed ears, and long sharp fingers. His wings were translucent, like a dragonfly's, and his eyes were angular and shifty. He wore a colorful loincloth and had a muscular body, though he was no bigger than
Tamlin's hand.

“Amadan,” Tamlin said.

“In the flesh.” He gave a bow and grinned up at Tim. Tim smiled back. Okay, Amadan was kind of cute. The creature darted over to Tim and hovered at eye level.

“I am a Fool,” Amadan said, “a court jester. And when the occasion warrants, a messenger. Anything to make milady smile, eh, Tamlin?”

Amadan landed on Tim's shoulder, and balanced himself by tugging on Tim's ear.

“Hey!” Tim protested.

Amadan ignored Tim and settled himself inside the neck of Tim's jacket. The creature's sharp toes tickled.

“Alas, our most gracious Queen is difficult to amuse at present,” Amadan said. Tim could feel the creature's breath on his neck. It was surprisingly cold. “I would not say she pines for you, Tamlin, but it does seem certain she'd take pleasure in your company.”

“Tim,” Tamlin ordered sternly. “Don't move. Hold very still.”

Tim gulped. Tamlin's worry scared him. He could now feel little Amadan gripping his throat with his talons. Did the flitling realize its own strength?

Tamlin held up his hand in a placating gesture.
“Amadan, there is no need for you to—”

“You're interrupting me,” Amadan snapped. “Grave discourtesy to a messenger. At the risk of discomfiting you I must insist, Tamlin, that you come with me to Faerie.”

Now Tim felt Amadan's fingers lengthen and grow into razor-sharp claws. For one so tiny, Amadan's grip was powerful. He was beginning to crush Tim's Adam's apple, as he scraped the skin on Tim's neck.

“Stop,” Tim choked out.

“So, Tamlin, you will accompany me to Faerie. You'll swear by oak and ash and thorn to attend milady's pleasure there.”

“He's hurting me,” Tim whispered. It was all the sound he could muster. The pressure on his throat was intense.

“If you don't,” Amadan hissed, “I'll do something memorable and picturesque to the boy.”

Out of the corner of his eye Tim was horrified to see Amadan transform from an impish elf to a nasty-looking creature with a skull-like face and rows of sharp teeth.

“Make him stop, please,” Tim begged hoarsely.

Amadan yanked back Tim's head as if he were going to gnaw his way through Tim's neck with those gnashing fangs. “Well?”

“I swear,” Tamlin agreed. “Release the boy
unhurt and let him go free. And by oak and thorn and ash I will return with you to Faerie. I will surrender to your mistress.”

Amadan gave a little laugh. “I thought you would.” He flew out of Tim's jacket and hung in the air above Tim's head.

Tim rubbed his neck and swallowed a few times, trying to get his throat back in working order.

“Tim, make the most of your time in this world,” Tamlin said sadly. “Always remember, in life as in magic, power resides in little things. And in truth.”

Tim stared at the man. These sounded like parting words of advice—the kind grown-ups gave if they thought they weren't going to see you again.

“How very touching,” Amadan sneered. “Come, Falconer. We've kept milady waiting long enough.”

“Farewell,” Tamlin said, placing a hand on Tim's shoulder.

“Wait.” Tim gripped Tamlin's arm. “What you said. You can't have meant it.” Tim swallowed. It hurt to speak. “You aren't going to get drawn and quartered or something just because—just because…”

Tamlin said nothing. He simply vanished. Right out of Tim's grasp. He was there one minute, and then he seemed to dissolve into a
wisp and was gone. So was Amadan.

Tim dropped to his knees in the snow. “You were afraid he'd hurt me,” Tim murmured. “And I whimpered and begged.” Shame colored Tim's pale cheeks red and choked him worse than Amadan's claws. “And now you're in trouble. You said you came here for my help. Instead I've gone and gotten you in deep.”

“Do not worry too much about your father.”

Tim looked up to see Kenny the homeless man standing over him. “What?”

“Are you deaf, lad? I said, don't worry about your father. He's always been in trouble, and he always will be. It's in the blood. But then I expect you know that by now.”

Tim looked puzzled. “What's Dad got to do with this? He wouldn't know danger from…” Then Tim paused. He realized Kenny was staring at him, smiling.

“Wait a minute—you're not talking about Dad at all…. Are you saying—are you trying to say Tamlin's—?”

Kenny trudged away, still in the snow-free zone Tim had created.

Tim sat there in the snow, stunned.

“My father?”

T
IM WANDERED THE STREETS
hunched up against the cold. He didn't know where he was walking or where he was going, only that he needed to keep moving. His mind was racing at top speed.

If your dad wasn't really your dad, you'd have figured it out yourself
, Tim told himself
. By the time you were six or seven, if you weren't totally clueless, you would have known. Just known!

Tim's feet stamped hard, leaving squashed footsteps behind. The snow had stopped falling and the wind had picked up, making it bitterly cold. Tim felt nothing.

If you've never doubted that your father was your father—not even once in your life—that has to mean something, doesn't it?

No one looks exactly like his parents
. Tim thought about the boys at school.
Bobby Saunders
doesn't look a thing like his dad. And Brian Hyde and his dad don't look much alike, until you start to notice little things.

Little things. Wasn't that what Tamlin had just told him to look for?

Maybe it's not the color of your hair that you get from your father. Maybe it's the shape of your nose, your walk, or your general attitude. Or it could be your body type. Whether you're a mesomorph or an endomorph, or whatever the other morph is
.

He had arrived at a door. Molly's door. This was where his feet had brought him, as his brain spun around and around in a dizzying fashion. Tim's hand reached out without instruction and he rang the bell.

He could hear loud shouts and a baby crying behind the door, then footsteps. He looked up so that he could be viewed through the little peephole in the door, and he heard the locks being undone. The door swung open.

“Hey, Tim,” Molly greeted. She wore blue sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt, and her feet were bare. He noticed each of her toenails was painted a different color, as if she wanted to make a rainbow of her feet. “What are you doing here?”

“What's the other morph, Molly?” Tim asked.

She cocked her head to one side, her dark hair falling across her shoulder. Without missing
a beat, she asked, “Do you mean like in the sci-fi pictures, when the bad guy morphs into another creature?”

“No, like we learned at school. Endomorph, mesomorph, and…and I can't think of the other one.”

Molly laughed and placed her hands on her hips. “Timothy Hunter. You came here at dinnertime in the snow to ask me a biology question? Are you mad?”

Tim ducked his chin and stared down at his trainers. He knew he sounded stupid—daft even. He started to turn to leave.

He felt Molly's hand on his shoulder. “No, you're not mad, but you're not all right either. I can see.” She jerked her head toward the living room. “Come on, then. In with you. Can't have you moping around worrying about ectomorphs in that cold.”

She stepped aside so he could enter. “And it is ectomorphs.” She brushed some snowflakes from the shoulder of his jacket. “I'm surprised you didn't remember that one, Tim. It's what you are. Naturally thin.”

She led him through the living room into the kitchen. Molly had a big family. Tim wasn't exactly sure how many of them there were, since there were often relatives with their own children
staying, and sometimes Molly's parents were gone for stretches at a time. There was a baby in a highchair—he recognized her as Molly's little sister Krista. There were three dirty boys ranging in age from two through about seven, a fat man in an undershirt eating a bowl of spaghetti, and a skinny lady at the stove. The skinny, sad-looking lady was Molly's mum, but the fat man was a stranger to Tim.

“Mum, Tim's here. Can we eat up in my room?” Molly asked.

“Suit yourself,” Molly's mother replied. She dished out a bowl for Molly and one for Tim. “Remember to bring the plates back downstairs.” She handed the bowl to Tim. “Nice to see you, Timothy.” She nodded toward the fat man. “This here is my brother Patrick, Molly's uncle.”

The man nodded a greeting at Tim but didn't raise his eyes from the newspaper he was reading.

“Hello,” Tim said.

“Come on,” Molly urged. She bounded up the stairs and into her room. Tim followed her inside and shut the door.

Molly shuddered. “Families,” she said. “Can't live with 'em, can't come into the world without 'em.”

“Yeah…” Tim stared down at his bowl of pasta and sauce. “Yeah.” Although he felt all empty
inside, he knew it wasn't from hunger. He placed the bowl on Molly's messy desk, then sat on the floor, his back against her unmade bed.

“Tim?” Molly sat on the floor beside him. “What's wrong? Is it about what happened at school the other day?”

Tim peered at her. “At school?”

“You know. You raced off the field like that, Coach Michelson calling after you. Did you get into trouble?”

Tim rubbed his face. The football scrimmage seemed so remote, so unimportant now. “I guess I got into trouble. Coach Michelson called my dad. I mean…”

“Timothy Hunter. You tell me what is going on with you right now,” Molly demanded. “You came here for a reason, and I don't think it was for pasta from a tin.”

Tim brought his knees up and lay his arms across them. How could he start? How could he even say the words? He could feel Molly waiting. He badly needed to work this out, but it was so huge. Huger even than the whole magic thing. It was too scary to contemplate alone. He needed her, but to get her to help him he would have to produce words, and that seemed incredibly hard to do. Impossible, really.

He shut his eyes. Maybe if he pretended he
was just talking to himself it would be easier. Sometimes it was as comfortable as talking to himself when he was with Molly. She reflected him, like a mirror, but with an opinion and point of view of her own.
Try
, he told himself.
Like Tamlin said, don't stop yourself for fear of being embarrassed
. He was afraid his voice would crack, that he might cry or shout. He was afraid of being a fool, but he had to be willing to risk humiliation to be able to do great things.

Not that this was any great thing
. But it was a great
big
thing.

“Tim.” Molly's voice was gentle but insistent. “You'll feel better. You know you will.”

“I—I found out today…” Tim cleared his throat and started again. “I have reason to believe that my father is not actually my father,” he blurted.

He couldn't look at her. He heard her take in a surprised breath, then felt her hand on his ankle. “No wonder you're wrecked. That's major.”

Tim looked at her. “Am I that stupid? How could I not have known?”

“We believe what our parents tell us,” Molly said. “It's what kids do. That's why it's so easy for grown-ups to lie to us.”

Tim thought she sounded sad, as if there were times she had believed her parents when she shouldn't have.

“Besides, what kind of clues would there have been?” Molly offered. “What could have told you any different? Hey, it's only lately that you even figured out the, you know, facts of life. And until you knew the biology of it, why would you question it?” Molly laughed. “So this was a biology question, after all.”

Tim shook his head but grinned. “I suppose I should have studied more then.”

“So what does your dad say about all this?” Molly asked.

Tim gave her a sideways look. “Which one?”

Molly shoved his knees a little. “You know. The one who bugs you about your homework every night. The one you complain about incessantly. That dad.”

“Oh, him.” Tim lay his head on his knees. He shut his eyes. He didn't know whether he should be angry at his dad or feel sorry for him. Did his father even know that he wasn't—well, his father? Was this some sort of huge secret Tim was now burdened with? He turned his head and squinted at Molly. “I don't know.”

“He wasn't the one who told you?” Now Molly's dark eyes were wide with surprise. “Then how—”

Tim raised a hand to interrupt her. “Long story. Don't ask.”

“How do you know it's true?” Molly asked.

Tim lifted his head and stared straight ahead. Molly had a point. She usually did. Wasn't a person supposed to get—what was the term they used in the action pictures—corroborating evidence? After all, who had hit him with this news flash? Kenny the homeless stranger. Not exactly a reliable source.

But Tim knew he was so rattled because he
sensed
this to be the truth. He had felt something like kinship, some unnameable connection, with Tamlin. A kinship that might be explained if they were actually kin.

“Talk to your dad,” Molly urged. “Don't just take someone else's word for it. It's better to have things out in the open. Things fester in the dark. You'll feel better if you know all you can know.”

Tim nodded. He knew she was right. He slowly unfolded himself from the floor and kicked out the kinks in his legs. He had walked a lot in the cold, and his body felt like he'd been run over by a train in the Underground. All his muscles hurt.

He gave Molly a sad grin. “Can't you ask him about it for me?”

“Sorry. This is one you've got to do on your own.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“It might be all right,” Molly said.

“How could it possibly be all right?” Tim asked.

“I used to always imagine my parents weren't my real parents,” Molly said, flopping down on her bed. She lay on her back with her arms behind her head. She gazed up at the ceiling, a dreamy expression on her face. “I'd be the daughter of a pirate and an explorer.”

Tim sat on the edge of the bed. “Who was who?”

“They alternated. Sometimes my dad was the pirate, sometimes my mum. But they were always so much more exciting than my real parents. Nicer, too,” she added softly.

Tim's brow crinkled. Tamlin was certainly a more exciting figure than his beer-swigging, telly watching dad. He wasn't particularly nicer, though. Tim wasn't really sure what Tamlin was. The bloke was occasionally a bird, after all.
I mean, what does
that
tell you?

Molly rolled over onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow. “You know, ultimately it doesn't matter, does it?”

Startled, Tim asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, at the end of the day, you're still you, aren't you? No matter who your father is.”

Tim shook his head but didn't reply. She
didn't seem to understand that this was precisely the point: If he could figure out who his father really was, that would give Tim clues about his own identity. Wouldn't it?

“Maybe bringing this secret to light will wake your dad up.” Molly sat back up. “You know, change things between you.”

“That's sort of what I'm afraid of,” Tim said. “It could change everything. Molly, what if he doesn't know?” The thought of this made his heart hurt for his dad.

Molly gripped his hands. “Truth is always best. Remember that.”

“I'll try.” Tim paused a moment. “Are you sure you can't—”

Molly got off the bed and shoved Tim toward the door. “Go,” she ordered. “And ring me the minute you're done talking.”

Tim left the house, depositing his bowl of uneaten spaghetti on the kitchen drainboard on the way out. It was bitter cold outside now, and depending upon the state his father—Mr. Hunter—was in, he might catch it for being late and not phoning.

Maybe it was all a stupid prank
, Tim thought as he jogged home. How could it be true? How could Tamlin be his father, anyway?
I mean, how would that have been possible?

Tim charged into the house, scooting past his dad and the telly. He dashed up to his dad's bedroom and rummaged through the dresser drawers. He needed proof, evidence, something to tell him for dead certain who he was—where he had come from.

“Tim, what are you doing in that mess?” Mr. Hunter demanded from the doorway. Tim hadn't even heard him come upstairs.

“Looking,” Tim said, rifling through some school papers and certificates.

“Looking for what, I'd like to know.”

What
am
I looking for?
Tim sank back onto his heels. He'd been looking for verification—but had no idea what form that would take. One possibility occurred to him. “Pictures of you. When you were my age.” Maybe then he'd find a resemblance. It would be easier to see, if Tim could compare himself with his father before his dad had gone all soft and sad.

His father stepped into the room. “Well, I don't have any, and if I did, they wouldn't be in there, so just—Put that down,” he suddenly ordered.

Tim looked down at the paper in his hands. It seemed to have upset his dad. It must be important. “What?” he asked. “It's just your marriage certificate. Yours and Mum's.”

Tim peered closer at it
. Why would my finding
this bother Dad so much?
Then he noticed something that didn't make sense. “This says you got married in January.” Tim turned to look at his dad. “But my birthday is in June.”

“Yes,” his father said carefully. “Quite so.”

Tim stood up. “I did better in math than I did in biology. I can do the sums here. Mum was already pregnant with me when you got married.” Tim felt a rushing sensation as all the blood hurried up to his head. His ears pounded, and he thought he could hear the sea. He turned and darted out of the room.

“Tim, don't go!” his father cried behind him. “It's not what you think! I loved your mother. I
wanted
to marry her. She was—”

Tim heard his father's voice break. It shocked him into freezing halfway down the stairs. He turned around and stared at his father. “Go on,” Tim said, his voice low. “She was what?”