Bravado's House of Blues (13 page)

The words fell on Ike like a piano, hard and noisy.

“Okay, anything then.”

“All right, I’ll be back.”

Ike listened to Stick’s steps as they faded in the distance.

He breathed deeply, feeling the pain swell in his chest, yearning to cry, but unable to feel his eyes.

MUSHROOM CLOUDS
and FAIRY RINGS

M
olly woke repeating some of the words the Hound Master used when one of the young pups got a little too nippy. She stretched, raising her head off the toadstool she’d been sleeping against, and looked to see who was a knock, knock knocking at her door.

Only, there wasn’t a door. She was sleeping in a ring of toadstools and the knocking wasn’t the Matron of Switches to remind her she was late for brekkies with the fairy princesses. Nope, the mushroom clouds that dotted the skyline were most definitely not on the agenda as far as she recalled. As she watched, two more bloomed close at hand, and the world shook with a pair of great, fiery thumps.

Molly wasn’t scared, despite the booming and cracking that had woken her up. She’d had plenty of years practicing to be brave. She was the terror of all the little princess fairies who roamed the White Queen’s palace. But Molly wasn’t a fairy. She’d been snatched at birth, swapped for a doppelganger, and her parents, with seven other children, were none the wiser. And here she was off to do the same durned thing.

Once Molly realized she was growing to be bigger than the rest of the other wee ones she played with, things began to unravel for the Matron of Switches, the ornery, old brownie who was responsible for keeping order amongst the nursery brood.

Twice Molly had to be bespelled to stop her temper, and once, though it was only whispered about in the quietest circles, it was reported that the White Queen herself had come down to the nursery to quiet young Molly and set her to right. Molly still had the mark where the White Queen had touched her with the ice wand she waved around. It kept her temper in check most days, to think about that scar, and to remember just how angry the White Queen had been.

She looked down at her pack. Inside was the seedling she was to swap for another child of the big’uns. That, and the rest of her kit, were doing just fine. The half empty bottle of moonshine she’d snitched from those nine-pin crazy dwarves set nestled against her hip as secure as could be.

Mushrooms were not new to her, nor toadstools, though they had a whole different magic to them. These mushrooms that dotted the horizon were made of fire and ash. She could tell even from here. A nasty wind blew around her as well. The trees and bushes erupted into flames, but she stood there, unscathed in her fairy ring.

“I’m not sure what the big’uns have gotten themselves up to,” she said to no one particular. “But there is no way I’m taking responsibility for this with the Matron of Switches.

All the young’uns in the nursery feared the Matron of Switches. She loved nothing better than to march one of the fairy princesses out into the garden and laugh at their tears as they picked their own switch for one transgression or another.

It really wasn’t until Molly was big that the other fey began to find an advantage of her height and strength. That was the winter when wolves broke into the garden where the princesses were having their tea party. Molly, being out-of-place in her frilly pink dress amid the dainty tea cozies, picked up a garden hoe, and set about the young wolflings, sending them scattering back across the hedge with their tails between their legs.

That was the first time the Matron of Switches did something far worse than switching young Molly. This one and only time, she kissed her on the forehead and sent her to her room with an extra plate of sugar cookies. Molly had been so undone that she’d almost wished to be switched. At least then, she’d have known where the tears were from.

Soon after, the White Queen saw fit to send Molly on a trip to her birth world. It was here she saw others like her, tall and gangly, all arms and legs, with nary a glittery wing, nor a pointed ear. Here her plain round ears and lack of wings didn’t set her apart. And with that grew hope, or a sense of purpose. The White Queen explained to Molly that the Matron of Switches had suggested she be allowed to visit the world she’d been born to. It was a very big responsibility, but as Molly was a big girl (as compared to the fairies, at least) she could probably handle it.

Molly set about learning the things the fairies wanted her to learn, and danced and sang to the White Queen’s delight. So she preferred to run with the dwarves down in the kitchens, or wrestle with the gnomes out in the garden . . . as long as she was cleaned up and at tea at the proper time, all was forgiven.

When it looked like the fires were gonna keep burning a while, Molly began to look longingly at the moonshine. She loved the way the dew of the mountain made her all warm and tingly as it worked its way through her belly. The long sleep it gave her would probably last long enough for the firestorm that swept the mountain to burn itself out. She nudged the little seedling in her pack and whispered, “Maybe we should take another little nip, sleep a bitty bit, and see if the big’uns get their house in order while we’re in dreamland.” Not like the fey would notice the time going by. Twice before she’d been gone to the land of the big’uns for days and nights, only to return to Summerland the same day, and in plenty of time for afternoon tea.

So Molly settled down in her little nest of leaves and took another long sip of mountain whiskey. She watched the sky above her flash with gold and red as the clouds were swept away and the black of night fell on the world.

“I’ll just swap you for a big’un after I’ve had a bit more nap,” she whispered to the seedling. “They’ll all be busy what with the burning and all.”

The next time Molly woke she noticed two things right off. First of all, she was a mite taller than she’d been when she went to sleep. Second, the fiery storm that had swept over the mountain was long gone, and all sorts of green and growing things were smashed right up against the circle of toadstools she slept in. Her feet were right on the edge of the ring, and her hair, where it had grown over into the edge of the circle had turned white as ash.

She stood, making sure her satchel was handy, and noticed that all her clothes were too tight, and the satchel was a lot tinier than she remembered it.

There in the bottom, with her seedling, were her dainty white gloves for tea parties with the fairy princess, and the good, stout knife the Hound Master had snuck into her pack the first time the White Queen had sent her forth into the land of her forefathers. She took out the knife and tucked it into the band of her too-tight britches. Her top was so small, her belly showed, and her shoes had burst off her feet while she slept.

“I must look a sight,” she told the seedling. “But, I reckon it’s time to go fetch one of those big’uns like the White Queen demanded.”

She looked around, tucked the moonshine in her satchel for safekeeping, and stepped outside the ring.

She forgot just what being in that ring did for her, for as soon as she’d stepped over the toadstools her head began to throb from all the durn moonshine.

“Well, little bit,” she mewled to the seedling. “Let that be a lesson to you. Too much moonshine makes your head throb and your eyes blurry.”

After a minute where she thought her insides were going to crawl out through the back of her eyes, she was able to take a second step and look around the riotous world of greenery.

“Nothing for it, but to begin,” she said, pushing through the underbrush. “Ain’t no girl-child gonna fall from the sky.”

Soon enough she came upon an old road that was cracked and overgrown. She remembered these pathways from her last trip here. Highways, the big’uns had called them. They’d sure let things go, she thought. No pride in keeping a tidy place.

She walked for near an hour before she saw her second surprise. There among the weeds and brambles was a row of rusted-out carriages filled with the bleached bones of the dead.

The fey knew about the dead. The Black Queen liked to send them against the White Queen’s armies from time to time—shambling corpses that blundered over tea parties and had no respect for doilies nor placemats.

These were not shambling, however. They lay as quiet as mice, jumbled and tossed about in the insides of their carriages. Some of the glass was intact, but in general, the good green of the world had begun to overtake them, and hide them from pleasant folk.

The first real hill she was able to climb let her get a good look at one of the villages the big’uns liked to gather in. While the fey had cute little cottages, or in the case of the White Queen, an enormous castle, the big’uns had tall thin towers that reached up to the sky.

Only, now they were broken as well. Shattered spires and rusted skeletons of fortresses that scraped the sky remained. It made her sad, the way the big’uns had let their villages go to seed. Sure enough, the roads were overgrown with wild things, vines and twisty prickers like blackberries and worse.

Everywhere there were the pale white of bones amongst the deep green of the forest that had invaded the villages and scoured the world.

“You know what I think,” Molly said to the seedling. “I’m thinking the big’uns done broke this old world. I can’t never go back to the tea parties and cotillions if I don’t swap you for a right goodly girl child.”

Molly walked while the sky was shiny and bright, then kept walking after the skies overhead were filled with twinkling lights.

She lay in a clearing, not far from an old house used by the big’uns before they’d all gone and killed each other. She had the seedling lying on her chest—which had grown a might more lumpy than the last time she recalled waking up—and discussed their options.

By the time sleep took her, she’d resolved herself to start the morning right, have a bit of tea and one of the three cakes she’d brought with her, and do a little witching to help her find her way.

As the sun rose the following morning, streaking the sky with violet and lavender, Molly walked to the middle of a wide swath of clover and settled her little pack onto the ground in front of her. From inside, she took out a blanket covered in pink hearts and yellow moons. Once this was spread, she set two places. In the center she placed the teapot the Princess of Pansies had given her for her last birthday party. They really didn’t know when anyone’s birthday was, since time in the Summerland didn’t actually flow like a river. It was more of a suggestion; at leastwise, that’s what the Master of Hounds had explained to her when she’d asked. She liked the old man. He was a human, like her. One of the big’uns that had been taken at birth. He’d worked through a lot of years; growing old with the fey took a long, long time.

Once she’d poured her tea and plucked one of the sweet cakes from her satchel, she set the seedling on the far side of the blanket in front of her teacup and poured a dram into the saucer. This way, the seedling could have a bit of a soak in the hot, sweet concoction.

Having drunk her fill, and nibbled the edges of the cake, Molly pulled the knife from her waistband and held the tip against her thumb, just enough for the sharp point to draw a single bead of blood. She leaned over the dregs of tea in her cup, allowed the one drop of blood to fall down amongst the leaves, and swished the cup three times widdershins. Then she tipped it upside down, letting the final drips fill the saucer. While the tea drained, she packed everything back into her satchel.

Sitting cross-legged on the clover, she took up the teacup and turned it over, studying the leaves that had congealed in the bottom of the cup. “I see,” she said aloud so the seedling could hear her and not be afraid. “There are no people anywhere I can find.” She looked across the great rolling hill up to a block of broken towers. “But, people lived there once upon a time. There may be something in that direction” —she pointed away from the rising sun— “that’s like people, only just.”

She tapped the tea leaves out onto the ground and stashed the teacup back into her satchel. As the seedling had begun to grow just a little, she decided to braid it in her hair so she wouldn’t lose the wispy thing, and allow she’d get a chance to see the sights.

They walked for the better part of three days, by turns galumphing across the open spaces, and creeping through the broken bones of the world. They slept by turns in carriages (empty of old bones), carousels, and lop-sided buildings with their insides turned out, and their outsides flopped around like old slippers.

“I grow weary of all these broken palaces and gaping skulls,” she said on the fourth day. The mountains were starting to fall behind her, and the vast plains opened before. “Buttercup told me once, there was a magical city on the edge of a very large lake,” she said confidently. “There, if you were a very brave princess, you could meet a surly wizard, or maybe a brave soldier who would do your bidding if you smiled daintily enough.”

She touched the long curl that fell down from behind her left ear, with the seedling woven in amongst the locks. “Do you fancy meeting a handsome waif to steal your heart?”

But, as always, the seedling did not join in the conversation, and Molly grew tired of the very quietness of the world.

“I wish we could just go home,” Molly said one day as the sun set over a field of rusting carriages. “I’ll deny it, if you repeat it,” she said to the seedling. “But I even miss the Mistress of Switches.”

On a cloudy day deep in the countryside, after three days of rain that spluttered like a fire and stung Molly’s exposed skin, they happened upon the metal man.

She assumed he was a man, for he was dressed for war. The thickness of his limbs, and the weapons arrayed along his arms and legs, spoke of great battles yet to be fought.

“Hello, warrior,” she said to the stoic sentinel.

He did not respond, just stood poised for action.

“I bet you would like some tea,” Molly said after watching the metal man for a solid hour. “The Mistress of Switches says even the most recalcitrant child will mellow with a nice cuppa.”

She set the tea, blanket, cups—three this time—and plates, of course. The first cake she’d nibbled to nothingness, so she broke the rose petals from the second one and allowed a bit of crumbs to dust each of the three plates.

The tea was hot and sweet, straight from the pot, but the warrior did not sit with her. She was nearly afraid to touch him, but not completely so. Thinking back to the way the Master of Hounds handled the new pups, she took her best gloves from her satchel and put them on. Then she took up the warriors teacup and held it to his angular head.