Except the Queen (21 page)
Authors: Jane Yolen,Midori Snyder
When the scare-bird stood, looked about wildly, and left me this time, I went upstairs to write. Whether my letter went by eagle or dove, it could not go until I wrote it. Keeping Meteora’s newest missive by my hand, I began.
It took me all day and half the night and I used up five pieces of my precious paper, crossing out words, phrases, entire sentences, then writing them all over again. But at last I was done and put the letter in the envelope. I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. I would go to the place of mails and send it off in the morning.
My dear Meteora:
I sit here in the growing dark, which had once been such a friend. Not even a candle stub to pierce the gloom for new candles are expensive and so I husband them carefully. I am cold, cold Meteora, who was once so warm. Fire shot through my veins and I could dance till dawn. The partners we had then: the daft little fauns with their capering legs and high, trilling giggles. The village men, half drunk on our wine, half drunk on our beauty.
What I miss are not the glamours, nor the dances, nor the glowworms caught in the trees for lanterns. I miss not at all the politics of the court. What I miss most are the friendships, for you are but a piece of paper and ink to me now. Human friendships seem as gossamer as their lives.
And yet . . .
And yet I think we are missing something, sister.
Let me explain. Everything we Fey do has meaning. This we know from our acorn cots. And yet, sundering us from companionship, the friendships of touch and taste and the intertwine of limbs has forced me to think as I have never thought before. I have asked myself these past gloaming days what meaning have we not understood, so deep in the gloom of these new lives?
Here, I have lighted the candle stub. See how it pushes back the dark. Where it touches the edges of the room, there is a soft glow, like those living lanterns in our trees, so much better than the human lamp overhead that gives much light but little warmth. What if we are meant to be glowworms in these last years? Shall we try to hang upon humanity’s top limbs and give them light? Is that the meaning? In other words—that green-haired child of yours—can she be tamed? Can she be helped? Can she be transmuted without our magic into her deepest, best human self? There is the question.
I have a similar child sleeping on my doorstep upon occasion who once—or so I think—made claim on me for sanctuary. He is thin as a scare-bird, his hair a toss of darkened straw. He shivers and moans in his sleep. I touched him once and his dreams spoke of monsters that would fright even a Red Cap. His blood runs with something the color of bile. His anger is as bitter as vetch. He has been vomited into the world by something even he does not dare name. There is a will-o’-the-wisp quality to him, yet the burnished steel of an unsheathed sword beneath. He is a puzzle. But I have promised that he has sanctuary here.
Oh, I know what you will answer. A moment ago I would have said the same myself. We should be finding a way to return to Faerie, not trying to
heal humanity’s running sores. Well, our own threw us out, Meteora, and not just because of our misplaced laughter. All we have left are these children and our glowworm dreams. Even if we cannot help them, we shall at least be back in the game, whatever game it is.
Your old dear,
Serana
“
D
amn, Sparrow, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I mean really looked at yourself?” Marti asked. She was leaning against the kitchen sink, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands.
Despite the dull ache behind her eyes that threatened to bloom into a headache, Sparrow looked up at Marti and tried to feign ignorance. “What’s the matter?” She hated the way Marti was scrutinizing her, as if she were a plant in need of tending. Something to be pushed into the light and pruned to keep healthy.
“You need to see a shrink. You’ve been sobbing your heart out every night for the last two weeks. You hardly eat, you look like a total mess. When was the last time you did laundry? Are you even
going
to work?”
Sparrow rubbed a hand across her eyes. The headache was beginning to pound. “Yeah, I am going to work. It’s hard. But I go because I have to eat. I’m just trying to work through something on my own, Marti. Something tough. But I think I’ve got it under control, now,” Sparrow said softly. That much was true. The last two nights, she had succeeded in beating back the demons that invaded her dreams. The burning tattoo had stopped its nighttime bleeding, and the soul-wrenching sorrow and fear that had consumed her nights was abating.
“Are you sure?” Marti sat down next to her and laid a manicured hand over Sparrow’s nail-bitten fingers.
Sparrow gave her a wan smile. Marti was dressed for her new job, a professional one in an office in town. Sparrow couldn’t remember what it was Marti did now, but she had shed her street look of vintage clothes and long braids for something much more upscale. Her mouse-brown hair, now glimmering blond and smelling of expensive shampoo, was cut and styled to a few inches beneath her chin. Her eyes had a smear of amethyst powder on the lids, and the once pale gold lashes were thick and black with mascara.
“You look beautiful today,” Sparrow said, and meant it. “That blue sweater suits you perfectly. Very classy.”
Marti blushed, and tried to wave away the compliments with a perfect berry-colored-nailed hand. “I just think you should see a counselor, or a shrink, Sparrow. You’re obviously suffering from depression. I know you’ve got your secrets, but sooner or later you’ve just got to face it once and for all.”
Sparrow reached out for a cigarette from a pack on the table and stuck it in her mouth. She dug in her pockets for a lighter and steadied her trembling hand long enough to hold the flame to the cigarette’s tip. Inhaling deeply, she held it for a moment, and then released a veil of pale smoke. “Sometimes howling at the moon
is
facing it,” she said, replacing the cigarette in her mouth.
“Yeah, but it freaks out my boyfriend. In case you haven’t noticed, and I know you haven’t because you’ve been so preoccupied with howling. Mitch doesn’t want to stay here. And I hate, hate staying at his place. His roommates are pigs.”
Sparrow shrugged, meaning that she needed to fight her battles on her own terms.
Marti stood up and opened the kitchen window to let in some fresh air. “Okay, okay, I get it. You don’t need to smoke me out. I was just trying to help. When I was younger, my parents got divorced, and I went to a counselor
to deal with some anger issues. It really helped me a lot to talk to someone.”
Sparrow felt instantly guilty. It wasn’t Marti’s fault that she didn’t understand how weird—not just dysfunctional—Sparrow’s life was. And a well-meaning counselor, like the ones she’d encountered in the halfway houses, wouldn’t be able to understand either. If she told them the truth about how she’d survived in the woods, they’d have considered her delusional, and locked her up and stuffed her full of mind-numbing pills.
“I know you mean well. And I am sorry about freaking Mitch out. I promise, I’ll keep it down. But you gotta let me do it my way.”
“So long as you promise me that if your way doesn’t help in a day or two, you’ll consider dropping in at the Fourth Avenue clinic and find a professional to talk to about it. I don’t want to come home and find you’ve done something horrible to yourself, you know?”
Sparrow crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray and waved away the smoke. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a thing us former street kids go through. Like the flu. It’s almost over, I promise.”
“Okay,” Marti nodded, and then glanced at her watch. “Shit, I’m late for work.” She reached for her coat hanging on the back of a chair.
“Yeah, me too. I’d better get a move on, especially as this one needs her morning’s constitutional,” Sparrow said, nudging her foot affectionately against the sleeping dog’s round belly. “Walk,” she told Lily.
The dog scrambled to her feet and performed a little dog dance, shuffling back and forth, tail wagging. “Come on, girl, let’s go and wake up the squirrels.” She stood and got down the collar and leash. Snapping it briskly onto Lily’s collar, she followed the eager dog out the front door, and down the stairs.
Outside, Sparrow paused on the bottom step and inhaled deeply, while Lily was off watering a spot beneath the bushes. The morning was crisp, and the slanting sun gilded the tops of the trees in a buttery light. For the last
two weeks, this had been the only decent part of Sparrow’s day. No matter how exhausted she was from her miserable nights, every morning she was surprised by the restorative power that came with walking around the block, the dog leading the way from tree to bush, and occasionally dragging Sparrow across a yard in pursuit of a sleepy squirrel.
As they went along down the street, Sparrow found herself thinking about the elderly woman with the graying auburn hair and soft hazel eyes living upstairs. Sparrow was the only one in the house who knew the woman wasn’t Baba Yaga, the owner of the house. But she hadn’t told anyone, not even Marti, because that would have meant revealing her agreement with the witch, something even Sparrow wasn’t foolish enough to consider.
It had been late spring when Sparrow had first arrived in the city, searching for a place where she might stay just long enough to make a little money, and then maybe go north to the woods before winter. She’d been sleeping in the park for a few days when Baba Yaga awakened her with a tap on the shoulder.
“Who are you?” she’d demanded and Sparrow had bolted upright at the sight of the old woman’s blazing eyes, her iron teeth, the sound of her rasping voice. “Who
are
you?” she asked again.
“Sparrow,” Sparrow had answered, giving the most recent of many names she’d used over the years.
“Sparrows sleep in trees. You are more like a mouse. Trying hard not to be seen beneath the leaves.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Sparrow was alarmed that the crone had guessed correctly.
“Depends on who is looking. Any night hunter will find you here soon enough among the trees.”
Sparrow clutched her backpack, afraid of the twisted face and the fiery eyes that studied her so carefully. “Are
you
a hunter?”
“Yes. And these are my woods.”
“Have you come for me?”
“Yes, but not in the way you think. Listen, child, I
have a proposition.” Baba Yaga had squatted on her heels, dimmed the red flames of her eyes. Scratching at stiff hairs sprouting on her chin Baba Yaga then grinned. That smile was less comforting than her growl of a voice had been. “I have a house, nearby. You may live there. There is furniture, kitchen, everything to make you comfortable.”
“What’s the catch?” Sparrow was always wary of unexpected generosity. Such gifts always came with attachments, most of them dangerous.
“Hah!” the crone said, approvingly. “I need someone to gather rents and put them in the bank for me. I don’t like anyone to know who I am. So I will send you, little girl, to do it.”
“But
I
will know who you are.”
“Yes. But you are different. Like me, you have deep secrets. I can taste them. I will let you keep yours, so long as you keep mine.” She spit into her palm and extended her hand to Sparrow. “There is safety in
my
house, more than others.”
Sparrow flinched at the sight of the long black fingernails. She glanced up again at the old woman who grinned even more broadly, one broken tooth protruding like a fang over her lower lip.
She certainly isn’t someone’s kindhearted grandmother,
Sparrow thought. Still, the offer was hard to beat. The spring had been cold that year, the ground damp and her jacket thin. And if this crone could find her hidden in the bushes, others not so agreeable could, too. Besides, she needed a place to rest.
Sparrow spit into her own palm and gripped the crone’s hand as hard as she could, just to prove she wasn’t afraid.
Throwing back her head, the old woman gave a thunderous laugh. “Save your strength for others more treacherous than me.”
Without asking any more questions, Sparrow had followed her home. When she saw the stone chicken feet, Sparrow at last realized who had invited her to stay. A lifelong reader, Sparrow had sought out libraries as a
refuge, hoping to find answers in books to her own peculiar nature. She’d searched medical books, self-help books, New Age spiritualism, travelogues to exotic-sounding places, and romance novels, hoping to find someone who shared her visions and vivid dreams. Who healed as quickly as she did. Who could hide in plain sight, make herself invisible. Who held communion with certain animals and birds. None of the adult books helped. It was in the children’s section that she found an echo of her own life. The lush illustrations of fairy tales had more in common with the night terrors and fears that haunted her than anything else she’d ever seen. Hungering for more, she moved on to their adult counterparts in the myth and folklore sections of libraries and bookstores and found some of the peculiar contours of her life explained.
