Martin Millar - The Good Fairies of New York.html (15 page)

unfurled the green Fairy Banner and immediately the fairies came to his aid and won the day. For Heather and

Morag to cut two pieces from it was the most sacrilegious thing they could possibly have done. It was no surprise that the MacLeods had sent their most feared fighters to regain the pieces.

'This is as bad as the time the MacLeods chased us from Loch Morar to Loch Ness,' groaned Morag.

'It sure is,' agreed Heather, and winced at the memory. After an extremely long chase they had been on the very file:///Users/lisa/Downloads/Martin%20Millar%20-%20The%20Good%20Fairies%20of%20New%20York.html

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point of capture when they fortunately ran into a group of MacAndrew fairies. As the MacAndrews were

associates of the MacKin-toshes they had been willing to protect Morag and also her companion, enabling them to escape.

Later, though, there had been no protection anywhere from the powerful MacLeods and their allies. Heather and Morag's clans could not go to war on their behalf when they were so obviously in the wrong.

Now they were sat atop another fire truck which was racing north, sirens wailing.

Behind them the Chinese fairies were pursuing on motor cars.

'Lucky for us there's lots of fires in New York.' Heather declared that she was definitely innocent of angering the Chinese fairies and demanded to know what Morag had been doing to them.

'Nothing. I only freed a few lobsters. And it wasn't me that stole their brooch, I was just an accessory after the fact. Obviously these New York fairies have no manners.' Heather nodded.

'You're right there. I mean, what's wrong with taking dollars from a bank to buy food? Nothing to get upset about.

There's millions of spare dollars in that bank. Nobody will miss a few. If everybody took some then there wouldn't be all these poor people begging on the streets.'

They seemed to be outdistancing their pursuers.

'We're losing them.'

The fire truck came to a halt outside a burning apartment building. The two Scots jumped down. Another fire truck roared up alongside. Seemingly hanging off every available handhold were white-clad Italian fairies. Heather and Morag fled.

Ailsa was the oldest MacLeod sister and the leader. They were descended from Gara, the original fairy who

married the human chief, and all four of them were hardened warriors. They had high cheekbones, large dark eyes and jagged black hair cut short. Their claymores were keen and hung over their backs and the sharpened dirks

strapped to their legs had been handed down through generations of warriors.

'When we find the MacPherson and the MacKintosh, are we to kill them?' asked Mairi.

'If need be,' replied Ailsa. 'Although I have a sleep spell with me. We will try that first. How much further have we to go, Mairi?'

Mairi had the second sight.

'Not much further. I can sense a very strange land only a little way away.'

'Where are we?'

Heather shrugged. Neither she nor Morag had been this far north before.

'Have we shaken them off?'

'I think so.'

'How are we ever going to get back to 4th Street?'

The cab sped all the way up to East 106th before turning left. Heather and Morag dismounted in Fifth Avenue and looked around them.

'That was a long journey. And we're still in the city. What a massive place.'

'Look. There is some countryside!'

In front of them Central Park was green and appealing. 'At least we can rest for a while.' They bounded into the park.

'We've found the thieves!' yelled the leader of a hunting party from the black fairies. 'After them.'

The mercenaries were over Manhattan. Werferth halted the company and they stared down at the alien land. It was dusk but the city was lit up brighter than anything they had seen before. The huge array of human buildings was off-putting, but the moonbow stretched down into what appeared to be a large wooded field.

'Right, lads,' said Werferth. 'Down we go.' They began their descent into the foreign land.

'I absolutely did not do anything to offend any black fairies,' said Morag, perched on the back of a mountain bike.

'I never even met a black fairy before.'

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'Me, neither,' said Heather. 'They are obviously paranoid about strangers.'

The bicycle raced round the north edge of the park.

'Lucky for us this cyclist has good powerful legs.'

Heather and Morag flew from the cycle on to a passing horse and trap carrying tourists, and from there made their way to Broadway via a busking juggler riding a unicycle.

'This way,' yelled Morag, and leapt on to a car going south.

The car took them steadily down Broadway.

'I think we've finally shaken everybody off.'

They began to relax a little. They were now near Union Square, far away from the black fairies.

A stretch limo drew up along side of them. On top of it, to Heather and Morag's horrified amazement, were four figures from their nightmares. Brandishing claymores and preparing to board their car were the dreaded MacLeod sisters.

Kerry lay on the floor drawing her comic. This was one of numerous artistic enterprises she carried out mainly for her own amusement. The comic was causing her problems. Inspired by Morag and Heather it was meant to be

about fairies, but as Kerry mainly liked to write about fairies, or people, being kind to one another, it was short on action. Morag hobbled painfully into her room.

'Morag? What's wrong?'

The fairy slumped on to a yellow cushion. She was so stiff and sore she could barely move.

Kerry did her best to make a good cup of tea. Morag loved tea but Kerry, along with the rest of New York, was lamentable at making it.

Morag told Kerry about the day's terrible events: her pursuit by the Italians, Chinese, black fairies in Central Park, and finally the MacLeods.

'How did you escape?'

'We leapt off the car and started running when suddenly we were scooped up by a person who hid us in her

shopping bag. Some time later when we poked our heads out the MacLeods were nowhere in sight. Strangely

enough, our rescuer was none other than the funny lady who had your Welsh poppy.

'She told us not to worry because she had rescued us from Carduchan tribesmen, whoever they are, and to

remember that Xenophon was the best leader of the army, in case it ever came to a vote between her and

Chirisophus the Spartan. What this means, I am unclear.'

Morag hung her head a little.

'Unfortunately she then took the poppy again.'

'What? Where from?'

'From Heather. She was bringing it for you from Dinnie.'

'How did Dinnie get it?'

Morag shrugged.

'Anyway, the stupid wee midden took it out of her sporran and started waving it about. The bag lady said that it was not fitting for mere Pelasts to be in charge of so much valuable booty and claimed it was hers by right of conquest.'

Kerry was aghast.

'It certainly gets around, this flower.'

'Oh, well,' said Kerry. 'At least you escaped.'

'Well, sort of. Except we were just turning into East 4th Street when I remarked to Heather that if any of the Italian fairies were like me, that is, well known for psychic insights, they might well be waiting for us. They were.

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They took the money back. What a terrible day. I ache all over. My Indian headband is ruined. Have we got any whisky?'

Morag sipped her drink.

'It was nice seeing Heather, though. Till we argued.'

' "Tullochgorum" again?'

Morag shook her head.

'Not at first. She accused me of deliberately putting my feet in her face in Magenta's shopping bag. Stupid besom.

I was only trying to get comfy. Then she said no wonder the Mac-Phersons couldn't play strathspeys properly if they all had such big feet to worry about. Completely uncalled for. After that we argued about "Tullochgorum".

Then the incident with the poppy happened and I threatened to kill her for losing your flower. It really was a terrible day.'

Magenta trundled on. She was satisfied with the day's events. She had rescued her men from a serious attack and begged enough money to replenish her cocktail. Best of all, she had regained her booty. The Welsh poppy was

now dear to her heart, as dear as the guitar fragments she carried in her shopping bag, and she would fight to the death to keep hold of it.

Kerry hurried down to the deli to buy more whisky for Morag. Inside she met Dinnie.

'Hello, Kerry,' said Dinnie, summoning up his courage. 'I had a really nice flower for you except that stupid fairy Heather lost it somewhere.'

'How dare you meddle with my flower alphabet!' shouted Kerry, and gave him a good solid punch in the face.

Kerry and Morag harvested a fine crop of daisies from a scrubby patch of grass in Houston Street.

They had gathered enough both for the collection and to wear in their hair. Morag also left some on the corpse of the tramp who lay dead on 4th Street.

'How many's that now? Nine?'

Inside, Kerry studied her flower book.

'Bellîs pérennisé
she said. 'One of the easier parts of my flower alphabet.'

'Mmmm,' said Morag, studying herself in the mirror. 'I am almost convinced that daisies are the ideal adornment.'

'Possibly,' agreed Kerry. 'But it's always hard to tell right away. When I first put a ring of tulips round my forehead I thought I would never be unhappy again, but I soon got tired of them. Tulips are not profound.'

Suddenly angry she picked up her guitar and plugged it into her tiny practice amp.

'How an I going to replace my lost poppy? There's only two weeks left!'

She ran awkwardly through 'Babylon'. Morag stared glumly at her shattered violin and wished she could help.

Johnny Thunders, in celestial form, floated around Queens, where he was born, before visiting some old East

Village haunts, musing on the subject of his lost guitar. He had a definite feeling that if he could not locate it he would never be entirely satisfied, even in Heaven. Furthermore, if he ever faced any awkward questions from one of the numerous saints in Heaven about aspects of his behaviour while on Earth, he hoped to be able to play

himself out of trouble. He always had before.

As he trailed down to East 4th Street a semi-familiar tune caught his ear.

'Dear, dear,' thought Johnny. 'It's nice to know people still play my stuff, but that is a terrible attempt at

"Babylon".'

Dinnie peered out of his window. The four young Puerto Ricans were still kicking a ball about on the corner.

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Naturally, Dinnie did not approve. He regarded all games as stupid and soccer was an especially stupid one. It was not even American. At school games had been a nightmare for the unfit Dinnie.

His father used to encourage him to play basketball. Dinnie would have been happy to see basketball made illegal, along with his father.

He kicked around his room. Heather was meant to be giving him a music lesson, but the famous MacPherson

Fiddle lay silent on the bed. She had not reappeared from her mid-morning visit to the bar. No doubt she was

lying drunk in some gutter.

From downstairs the same lines of Shakespeare had been echoing up through his floor all morning. Today there

was another audition and performers were trooping in and out, repeating the same unintelligible things over and over. Dinnie's hatred for community theatre was reaching new heights.

Feeling at a loose end, he wondered if he should clean the cooker. He restrained the urge and diverted his

attention to the television instead.

'This beautiful fourteen-carat gold chain can be yours for only sixty-three dollars ! '

The jewellery in question rotated on a small turntable.

Dinnie found the sales channel particularly upsetting. He hated it when people phoned in to say how happy their new gold chain had made them.

'And you sell them so cheap! You've made my whole year feel just great!'

Dinnie changed channels.

'Any of you boys out there dream about being dressed up like a dirty little slut? Phone 970 D—O I—T, where all your fantasies come true.'

The man in the advert was dressed in a white corset. It was a nice corset. It suited him. Dinnie did not approve.

The heat pounded into his room from outside. Today it was almost too hot and humid to bear. He wished he could afford air-conditioning. He wished he could afford anything. He also wished that Kerry had not punched him in the face. Dinnie might be inexperienced but he knew that this was a poor start to a relationship. It had not made him like her any less.

Morag fluttered through the window, a pleasant sight with her eighteen-inch figure covered in bright hippy

garments and her multicoloured hair layered with daisies.

'Kerry, I have potentially a great bit of news.' 'Yes?'

'Yes. The ghost of Johnny Thunders, New York Dolls guitar virtuoso, was outside your window when you were

playing "Babylon". He sympathises with your difficulties in hitting all the notes and is scandalised than an ex-boyfriend of yours promised to teach you and then ratted on his promise. So Johnny has offered to help you play it properly.

'In addition he is going to give a thought to where I might get my fiddle repaired. He naturally knows about these things, having himself one time been poor, with only broken instruments to play.