The Girl Who Raced Fairyland All the Way Home (38 page)

“You would have been a good many things. I should know. The Country of Would Have Been is my home.”

“You're so big,” September breathed softly in the dark.

“I told you once: When I am distant and far off, I seem small to you. But when I am near, I look ever so tall. Would you like to come and lie in my lap? I will sing you to sleep, if you are tired.”

“I'm not.” But September walked over to her death anyway. “I'm not sleepy at all.”

“I'm glad. It would be very awkward for me if you died just now,” said Death, and folded September up in her arms warmly.

“What? I thought I
was
dead.”

“And I thought I said I was
near.
Near, not
here
. Not certain. You know, I always think somehow people will listen when I talk, but they never do.”

“But I felt the poison. I felt the barb in my throat.”

“Do you feel it now?” Death's dark dress rustled in the Worsted Wood.

“Well, no,” said September, touching her throat again.

“That should have been your first clue.” Death chuckled. “I haven't gotten to do this often. Forgive me, I am enjoying it so much.” The lady in black looked pointedly at September's feet. She followed the dark gaze of her own death.

September was wearing a pair of rich, soft green hunting boots. She had never seen them before in her life.

“What's happening to me?” She searched the face of her death and found only mischief there.

“I only ever got to see it once before. A man named Mabry Muscat. He gave his life for a girl he loved. King Goldmouth cut him down and I picked him up again.”

September looked at her legs again. Now, she was wearing green jodhpurs. And green gloves. And a green dress. And her own green smoking jacket. And a green carriage-driver's cloak.

“The Green Wind told you: The new Blue Wind must steal something from the old one to take her place. The Red Wind must be bested in single combat. And the Green Wind … whoever gives up their life to save the old wind blows green and bright through the world on the back of a Leopard.”

September laughed. She touched her long hair—it had gone a deep, wonderful green.

Death curled September into her great long arms, so long that they swallowed up all the green of her into shadow. And in the moonlit half-world of the Worsted Wood, Death began to sing September Bell awake.

Go to sleep, little skylark,

Fly up to the moon

In a biplane of paper and ink

Your wings creak and croon,

borne aloft by balloons

And your engine is singing for you.

Go to sleep, little skylark, do.

 

CHAPTER XXII

W
INDS
OF
C
HANGE

In Which Everyone Arrives at Their Destination

September opened her eyes. All she could see were clouds streaming by and a sky so blue it dazzled her. All she could feel was the beating of a Leopard's fierce, thundering heart beneath her.

“Hullo, Imogen,” the Green Wind said to the Leopard of Little Breezes.

“Hullo, September,” said the Leopard to the Green Wind. “I solemnly swear I will never bite you.”

The Green Wind laughed. “I don't mind. I know a wombat who has quite a philosophy about biting.”

“So do I,” purred the Leopard of Little Breezes. “She's just down there.”

September looked down and felt sick for a moment—she could see all of Fairyland racing by, every beach and mountain and long desert. And down by one particular sea and one particular shore lay Pandemonium, its bright woolen towers so achingly familiar and beloved, the green spike of the Briary gleaming in the sun. The two of them drifted slowly down past the clouds and the torches and the towers. The Leopard of Little Breezes took extra care not to jostle the landing. A handsome young man with a neat golden mustache and golden hair met them at the Ghostloom Gate. He wore a plain but very handsome maroon shirt and trousers.

“Mabry Muscat,” he said, kissing her hand. “At your service.”

And then he seized September up in his arms and spun her around so that her green carriage-driver's cloak and her green dress fanned out like sails. “Everyone's been waiting for you,” he said. “I told them what happened—I couldn't let your mother worry like that! Seeing you sprawled out on the ground like a crime scene! My stars!”

“My mother?” September gawped. “What are you talking about?”

But Mabry Muscat only laid his finger aside his nose. “Wait.”

“How long has it been?”

“Two days,” answered the old Green Wind. “Enough for us to sort what needed sorting and you to get a new pair of boots, you clever cat. It takes time for … it takes time for a new Wind to stir up in the east and get herself huffing.” He stopped and touched her long green hair. “Thank you, my daring darling. For saving my life. Such a funny tawdry thing to say. But it must be said or your father would never forgive me. And I shudder to think what your aunt Margaret would do.”

“My father?
Aunt Margaret?
”

*   *   *

Let us say the world is a house.

We have said so many times. We have gone up to the roof together and watched the moonrise among lost baseballs and kites. We have gone down to the cellar with our lanterns and we were not afraid. We have gone rummaging through all the rooms and out into the garden. We have eaten well together and not washed up our dishes nor made our bed, for we had ever so much more important things to do.

A house shines its best when it is full. When all the people who are wanted have come bustling through the door, laughing and talking over one another and checking to see who has brought pie and who has brought fresh bread and who has forgotten the apple cider.

It is quiet now, in our house. You and I have tidied our bed and our dishes and opened the windows in every room. It has been so lovely, making a house with you. We have done everything just so. And in any long year to come, we may always come back to this little house and see each other again, just as eager, just as glad as we ever were to clasp hands and sing songs and light all the lamps at once. This is my last magic trick, the curious wizardry of narrators. Come close, and I will whisper it, and then we shall have cocoa.

Endings are rubbish. No such thing. Never has been, never will be. There is only the place where you choose to stop talking. Everything else goes on forever.

I will always be here, in my old chair by the door, waiting for you, whenever you are lonesome. Our little house will always look just the same as when we first blew the dust off the bookshelves, and the kettle will always be just about to boil. Sometimes I will be young, and sometimes I will be old, and sometimes you will be young, and sometimes you will be old. But for as long as forever, I will keep a room for you. I swear by the sparkle in my eye and the spring in your step.

It is time to start the feast. We have lit a fire in the hearth and put the kettle on. Company is coming, after all, and we have waited so long to see them smile.

*   *   *

In the most splendid room of the Briary, the Queen sat on her throne.

Dahlias and roses and macadamia flowers burst from the walls in brilliant colors and deep, rich chairs and sofas lay all round, no higher than the throne, piled up with pillows for comfort. On one chocolate-colored sofa sat a troll in a leather jacket, and on either side of him lounged much bigger trolls—a magician named Hemlock and an enchantress named Hyssop, with their son Hawthorn squashed in the middle, quite, quite beside themselves with wonder at having found each other. Hemlock had made sure to scoot the sofa close to the window, so he could look down at the Barleybroom docks and see the fine pirate ship on which he and his wife had hitched a ride after that ridiculous wombat told them to come to Mummery, they must come, they must, no matter what. In a raspberry-colored chair sat a wooden girl, quite burnt, but smiling. Bits of green wick curled from her fingers, her eyebrow, her knee. A tree may come back from the flames many times, and the Matchstick Girl thought she looked rather rakish with her crisped bark.

September's mother stood by the window. She wore a bright, lovely dress of orange brocade and her long hair was braided with gold. She wore a fur cape not so very different from the ones at Brandeis & Sons. She fidgeted, and though she hadn't told anyone, she still had her sensible jeans on beneath the gown, in case more running was called for. Owen, September's father, lay on a chaise so that his leg would not ache—though truthfully it felt better this morning than it ever had. He looked like he had only just come home from college. The color rode high in his cheeks. Aunt Margaret wore her favorite dress, trailing white silk with a belt of opals and a high fur collar. A rather pretty young woman with short dark hair sat sprawled in a blue chair with her feet up over the arm. She wore sunglasses and smoked a long churchwarden pipe.

A-Through-L stood at a long, empty bookshelf the vines of the Briary had thoughtfully made for him, set into the deep wall. He had put aside his turnip watch and got proper spectacles. He put
The Mystery of the Blue Train
on the shelf. He took it off again. He put it back. He could not decide.

And on the throne of Fairyland sat a proud and beaming scrap-yarn wombat, wearing a crown of blue tongue berries and silver stars. The throne was a new one, extra-wide and made of the same night-stuff as the shops of Wom. Good Queen Buss surveyed all with a satisfied look on her woolly face.

“Hello,” said September shyly.

The room erupted. Susan Jane broke several new land-speed records getting to her daughter and wrapping her in a long, hard hug full of worry and wonder and the old terror of a child's empty bed. Owen kissed his girl's hair and squeezed her tight.

“But how? How could you possibly be here?” September tried to say from under their squeezing. “Where did you come from? I thought I'd never see you again!”

“As if we couldn't find you, wherever you hid,” said her father, kissing her hair.

“Mom, oh, Mom, I'm so sorry I didn't tell you, I'm sorry … don't be mad, please!” September was crying in big, breathless gulps. “I thought I wasn't ever coming home. I thought it was over. I thought you'd never know where I'd gone. And I'd never know what happened to you.”

Susan Jane held her daughter. She laughed over her green hair. “We thought you were dead. We saw you fall. Your heart … you weren't breathing. Oh, Tem, adventures are well and good but do try not to get killed again! I couldn't bear it!”

September's father clung to his wife and his daughter, laughing and crying. “How could we be mad? Look at everything you've done!”

“Everything?”

“My girl,” her mother said proudly. Her father stood as straight as a man who had never been to war, and his leg didn't pain him at all.

“But how did you escape Tanaquill?” September protested. “Where is Saturday? Is that a
crown,
Buss?” And then the squeezing grew much heavier, for a Wyverary added his heft to it. They all said her name so many times she began to think of changing it.

Blunderbuss gave a little wombat howl of triumph. “Too right it is! I'm Queen! Good Queen Buss! Actually, I'm Tobacconist. Met that Jacquard lady, she let me pick and I wanted to be a Tobacconist so I am! I've already chewed up a few laws—the Spitting Ceremony's Tuesday! All of Wom is coming and most of Fairyland! Well. Not Mallow. Lye's got her for safekeeping. Forgiveness is forgiveness but I'm a practical wombat. They say they'll send their best luckfig tarts. She and Lye have got the ovens going again in that daft bathhouse of theirs.”

“Oh, calm down you … you goofy-face,” Ell said, blushing furiously. It had taken all of his strength to say
I love you
in Wom. “Technically, September, you won,” A-Through-L explained. “Ajax said so, once he recovered from his shock. Oh—don't worry! He's quite all right. He's only little on the inside. A Dandy, like he said. Tanaquill only nicked him. You brought the Heart of Fairyland to Runnymede Square. You won the throne. But then you died. And Saturday had collapsed again—the smoke, you know, very bad for ocean-folk. And the grief. And I … I was in no state. I couldn't see anything but you being dead and
Death
begins with
D
but I couldn't bear it, I couldn't. So the crown rolled off your head and knocked up against Buss. Last wombat standing.”

Aunt Margaret smiled and ruffled her niece's hair. She felt no need to make a fuss. She'd never been the least bit worried that Tem couldn't make her way. “I had to make a new throne for her, of course. Fortunately, I had excellent materials at hand.” September stared. Beneath the macadamia flowers, the throne was made of twisted iron buckles and horseshoes, just the same as the Prime Minister's iron dress. Blunderbuss was all wool and cotton and silk, so it didn't hurt her any.