Changeling (2 page)

After I'd finished my eggs, I went down the spiral stair to the kitchen, where Astris had a row of what looked like mud-covered rocks lined up on the floor. Every once in a while, one would poke out a wrinkled head, blink, yawn, and retreat again. I knew how it felt.

“Hand me down the turtle wax,” Astris said. “And fetch some water. I swear, they're even muddier than usual this year.”

There's no running water in Belvedere Castle. Hauling it from the Turtle Pond is my main chore. It's no joke, especially on bath day. The bucket is wooden, and heavy even when it's empty. I have to lug it across the terrace to the edge of the cliff overlooking the Pond, attach the bucket to the rope, drop it into the water, and pull it up again without spilling. Plus, I have to be careful not to disturb the fish, or I'll get in trouble with the Water Rat.

The Water Rat is a Fictional Character. A writer made him up, but he was so real that he took on a life of his own. He loves messing about in boats, and spends the whole summer either fixing his rowboat or sculling it around the pond having picnics and talking to the fish and the turtles and insulting the ducks that nest in the reeds.

Today, he had the boat turned upside down on the grassy bank and was painting the bottom sky blue.

“Hullo there, youngster,” he called up to me. His white polo shirt and baggy chinos were neat as always, but he had a streak of blue paint across his muzzle. “You haven't picked up any fish in that bucket of yours, by any chance? Spring cleaning or no spring cleaning, I don't like my fish disturbed in spawning season.”

“No, Mr. Rat,” I called back politely.

“That's a good girl,” he said. “Busy time of year, isn't it? When things have calmed down a bit, look me out and I'll take you for a nice row. We'll pack a basket, trade stories. Have I told you about the time Mole and Toad and Badger and I turfed the Wild Wooders out of Toad Hall, back in the Old Country?”

“Yes, Mr. Rat. But I'd like to hear it again.”

“Excellent,” he said cheerfully. “Come when you like. Bring Astris. A few of those wonderful golden biscuits of hers would be very welcome. And a new story, if you have one.”

All Folk love stories. They love to hear them nearly as much as they love to tell them. I've heard stories from Japan, Brazil, Ireland, Russia, Kenya, Jamaica—just about every country in the world whose Folk have followed the mortal immigrants to New York. Astris, who is a native New Yorker, specializes in New York stories like “The Sewer Maintenance-Worker's Wife” and “Little Red Baseball Cap.” The stories are as different as the Folk who tell them, but the one thing they have in common is morals. “Don't be greedy” is a popular one, and “Don't ask too many questions,” and “Don't be too curious,” and most important of all, “Don't break the rules.”

I love the stories, but I could live without the morals. They all boil down to
Don't
. Don't do this. Don't talk to that. Don't turn around and look when you hear a strange noise. Don't turn over stones to see what's under them. Don't swim in Harlem Meer or walk on Sheep's Meadow without a Shepherd. Don't ride on any black animal with flaming eyes. Because if you do, you'll be sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. Once I asked Astris what happened to all the mortals who hadn't disobeyed all those Don'ts and she just looked at me, her whiskers confused.

“I don't know,” she said. “I never thought about it. Perhaps they went straight to living happily ever after.”

Well, I thought about it. And what I thought was that nothing happened to those mortals—nothing at all.

Which was what was happening to me. Like Radiatorella with no ball to go to, I was stuck fetching water and cleaning my room forever and ever.

The Water Rat went back to his painting and I hauled the bucket, sloshing, back across the courtyard. When I got to the kitchen, Astris had brushed the worst of the mud off the turtles.

“Thank you, pet,” she said, dipping her scrub brush into the water. “There's more to do today than I'd thought. I've been talking to the mice. There are
six
families to pack and move to the Shakespeare Garden, and the ghosts in the basement are stuck in the cobwebs again, and the squirrels need help getting those nutshells out of the attic. I can't spare the time to go to the Blockhouse. We'll have to leave your room until tomorrow.”

This is the kind of news that sounds better than it actually is. No brownie didn't just mean not cleaning my room today. It meant entertaining baby mice and calming hysterical ghosts or, if I was really lucky, shoveling nutshells out of the attic. And I'd still have to clean my room tomorrow.

“Why don't I go get the brownie by myself?” I said.

“No,” said Astris, scrubbing briskly. “Unsupervised adventures are for big girls.”

“But I
am
big, Astris. Just look at me!”

She looked. Her whiskers expressed a familiar combination of impatience and worry, moving into surprise as she took in my too-short leggings and my too-tight shirt.

“So you are,” she said slowly. “Still, the North Woods. It's not safe up there. Maybe the Pooka can go with you.”

On any other day, this would have been fine. The Pooka is a lot more fun to be around than Astris, who tends to turn everything into a lesson on Folk lore. He's a trickster and a shapeshifter. When he's not being a man, he's being one of those flaming-eyed animals it's dangerous for mortals to ride. But he's my fairy godfather, so I can ride him whenever I want.

Today, though, I was feeling itchy and restless. I wanted to be somewhere I didn't always go, doing something I didn't always do. I wanted an adventure.

“It's spring cleaning day,” I said. “He's probably busy.
Please
can I go alone? It's not like the Blockhouse is hard to find. All I have to do is follow the brownie's path up to the crest of the hill, and I'm there.”

“Well . . .” said Astris. Her eyes darted from me to the turtles to the swarm of excited mice piling candle stubs and candy wrappers and moldy bread by the kitchen door. “All right. But go straight there and come right back. Keep on the main path to the Blockhouse. Don't look to the left, don't look to the right . . .”

“And whatever I do, don't wander from the path,” I finished for her. “Do I look like Little Red Baseball Cap?”

Astris fixed me with her ruby eyes. “The North Woods are dangerous, Neef. The Wild Hunt lives in the North Woods. Just because the Hunt doesn't ride by daylight doesn't mean all the Hunters are asleep.”

I was about ready to jump out of my skin with impatience. “I
know
, Astris. I can take care of myself. You taught me how to say ‘I am under the protection of the Genius of Central Park' in about a million languages, remember?”

“So I did,” Astris said. “But the Genius's protection only covers you from consumption and grievous bodily harm. There are other ways the Hunt can hurt you. Don't talk to anyone you don't know. And if you meet a stranger, call the Pooka immediately. Do you have the hair to summon him with? Do you have Satchel in case you get hungry? Oh, dear. Maybe I should come with you after all.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'll be fine. Bye!” And I was out of there before she could change her mind.

The stones of the courtyard were warm under my bare feet, and the air smelled of damp soil and green things growing. The big mulberry tree in the Shakespeare Garden was bright with tightly furled buds. Down by its roots, the fairies Mustardseed and Peaseblossom were trying to talk some primroses into unfolding early so they could have new skirts. I waved and shouted, but they didn't even hear me.

The shortest way to the North Woods lies straight across Central Park Central. On warm, bright days, the huge lawn is usually thick with Folk playing complicated games or spreading their wings to the sun. Today it was deserted except for a team of corn spirits drifting slowly along the grass, combing it smooth with their long fingers. Hoping they were too focused on their work to see me, I tried to sneak across behind them, but as soon as my foot touched the grass, they yelled at me to get off.

One of the things I hate about Folk is that they notice you when you don't want them to.

The path took me east to the Obelisk, then turned north toward the Metropolitan Museum. Some adventure. This was the path I walked nearly every day on my way to the Museum to learn art and mortal languages. Sometimes I went on to the nearby Reservoir to swim with the nixies and undines. I'd never been allowed to go further north than that, not alone.

Today, the Reservoir embankment showed signs of spring cleaning, all draped with waterweed airing in the sun. I scrambled up and threw a pebble into the water. A sleek-headed nixie surfaced and shook her long green hair out of her eyes.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

“Hi, Algae,” I said. “I'm going to the North Woods to fetch the Blockhouse brownie. By myself.”

“You nearly brained me with a rock to tell me
that
? Go away! Some people have work to do.” Algae flicked her tail and disappeared.

Folk are like that. Bother them when they're busy, and they'll bite your head off. The nasty ones do it literally.

Beyond the Reservoir is the East Meadow. From here, the most direct route to the North Woods is by way of the Mount. It is not, however, the safest way to go. The Mount is surrounded by woods and haunted by ghosts and forest demons and ogres and enchanted snakes. Even under today's bright sunshine, the trees looked extra dark and gnarly, totally un-spring-cleanable.

I decided that Astris would want me to take the long way around.

It was a long walk. By the time I got to Harlem Meer, my feet were like lumps of hot tar. I got an apple from Satchel and cooled my toes in the water while I ate it. It just wasn't fair. At the very least, I should have met an old woman at the crossroads or a magic bluebird or a fairy musician offering to sell his fiddle in exchange for something I shouldn't give up. The most exciting things I'd seen today were teams of veelas and squirrels and dryads cleaning the dead wood out of the trees and encouraging the baby leaves to grow. Boring.

Something rustled in the reeds, and my heart beat a little faster. A pair of ducks appeared from behind a rock, herding a clutch of puffball ducklings out toward open water. I threw my apple core at them, got up, and trudged on toward the North Woods.

As Astris said, the North Woods are wild. South of Central Park Central, the dryads and hamadryads keep the trees and bushes groomed and neat. In the North Woods, they don't bother. The Wild Hunt lives in the North Woods, and the Wild Hunt acknowledges no authority—except, sometimes, the Genius of Central Park.

For anybody who doesn't know, Genius is short for
genius loci
, which (I know from my Latin lessons) means “the spirit of the place.” Important New York places—Wall Street, Broadway, Grand Central Station, the New York Public Library, the Village—have Geniuses. Some are really, really old, like the Mermaid Queen of New York Harbor. Some are practically brand-new, like the Conductor of Lincoln Center. But each Genius rules its territory absolutely.

The Green Lady of Central Park is the original Genius of the Island of Manhattan. We Park Folk are very proud of her. During the Genius Wars, she fought the newer, younger city Geniuses for territory, losing acre after acre of woodland to their buildings. Eventually, they made a treaty. Central Park was separated from the rest of the city and the Lady got some of her land back. Now she's the queen of all the green places in New York, and the Wild Hunt owes her allegiance. Mostly, she lets them do what they want, which is why the North Woods are so dark and tangled and dangerous.

The path to the Blockhouse is easy to find, because the brownie keeps it clean and clear of brambles and rocks and old dead branches. I stomped along it, getting hotter and crabbier by the step, until I got to the massive stone stair that leads to the top of the hill. I wiped my sweaty face on my sleeve. Heroes in stories have magic shoes and things that help them through the boring parts of their adventures. So I wasn't a real hero, or this wasn't a real adventure. Which I'd already figured out, but I didn't like having my nose rubbed in it.

I tripped on the third step and landed sprawling. Sitting up, I licked my scraped palm and checked out the rip in my leggings.

And then I noticed a second path branching off the steps to the right, a path I swear hadn't been there before.

Scrambling to my feet, I peered into the shadows. It looked as if the path climbed the hill in a gentle spiral, longer but not nearly as steep as the brownie's stair. The path itself was narrow and rocky and weedy underfoot, and the branches of the trees wove together above it to make a cool, green, murmuring tunnel.

I knew what I
should
do, of course. I
should
turn away from that tempting path and climb straight to the Blockhouse as Astris had told me to. But if I did that, there'd be no adventure. Every story I'd ever heard started with the hero breaking a rule, sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose. Either way, they lived happily ever after.

Stairs or path? A fake adventure or a real one? It was up to me.

Who cared about Little Red Baseball Cap? She was an idiot who couldn't tell the difference between an old lady and a wolf in a nightgown. I'd heard a lot of fairy tales, and I remembered what I'd heard. If the stories warned me against getting into trouble, they also showed me ways of getting out of it again.

I took a deep breath and stepped onto the rocky path.

CHAPTER 2