The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen (11 page)

I took the Betweenway from Yorkville to Riverside. As I stepped out of the Riverside station, I was hit by a gust of wind off the river that made my eyes water. I wiped my eyes and searched for a path that looked like it might go to the river. There were several. On the theory that middle ways tend to be lucky, I picked the middle path. It led me through a tangle of rocks and swamp myrtle, then left me at the edge of a swamp. Nearby was a faint trail of matted-down marsh grass. It didn’t look inviting, but it was the only path around. I followed it.

I knew if I turned around, I’d see the buildings of Columbia University behind me, but it felt like I was in the middle of nowhere. The wind whistled, the reeds clacked, and the wet grass squelched under my feet, releasing a scent of hay and rot. The path skirted a still, black pond that hinted at saucer eyes and hungry, tooth-rimmed mouths. I kept away from the water’s edge and hurried on.

The path ended at a muddy island. It wasn’t much of an island: scrub brush and rocks and some tufts of marsh grass. I was going to have to go back and look for another path.

As I turned, I slipped on a patch of green and sank ankle-deep in black ooze.

I grabbed two tufts of marsh grass and hauled myself out of the mud, which released my feet with a slurping pop and a stinky sigh. Liquid mud seeped down inside my sneakers, where I could feel it squelching slimily between my toes. I sat down on roundish gray rock and started to pick at my wet laces.

The rock screamed and bucked, throwing me backwards into a very prickly bush.

I yelped and flailed and wiggled out of the bush, coming face to grainy, gray face with a marsh goblin.

“You sat on me!” it gibbered. “Your posterior, on my
head
! Was that nice? And
then
”—it cranked up the volume—“
you destroyed my house
!”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “I thought you were a rock.”

The goblin put its hands over its bat-wing ears, curled its head over its webbed feet, and howled. Even now that I knew it was a goblin, it still looked like a rock to me, dark gray and knobbly, encrusted with lichen and veined with black. Except that rocks don’t howl.

“I’m sorry about your house,” I shouted. “It was an accident. Really.” The goblin’s accident, not mine, but I didn’t need diplomacy lessons to know I shouldn’t say so. “I meant no harm. I was clumsy. I’m really sorry.”

The goblin shut up midhowl, uncurled, and pointed a long, curved claw at me. “You’re a mortal,” it said accusingly.

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard of you. You’re the Park changeling. Which means that drowning you or picking out your eyes isn’t an option.” It sighed unhappily.

“The Lady wouldn’t like it. I
said
I was sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough. You have to earn my forgiveness. Let me think.” Its claw rasped against its scaly head. “All right. I’ll forget about you sitting on my head and turning my house into kindling—if you do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” I asked cautiously.

“You promise you’ll do it?”

“I promise I’ll think about it.”

The goblin gave me what it probably thought was a friendly smile. “It should be easy for a hero like you. All you have to do is make a nymph give me her green glass beads, and we’ll call it even. Otherwise, you owe me a new house. Or maybe an eye. I’m sure the Lady wouldn’t object if I took just one.”

I blinked. “Green glass beads?”

The goblin pulled its next sigh from the bottom of its webbed feet. “
The
green glass beads. Round, luminous, smooth. On a silver ring. They’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Magical. They’re better than stars or water, better than voices of winds that sing. They’re better than—”

“Sliced bread,” I interrupted. “I get it. And the nymph who has them won’t give them to you.”

“No.” The goblin’s voice was mournful.

Things were looking up. Even in the middle of a swamp, I was on firm ground, fairy-tale ground, playing by rules I understood. “I don’t know,” I said thoughtfully. “Getting green glass beads from a nymph who doesn’t want to give them up sounds like a very difficult task, maybe even an officially impossible one. You have to give me something just as valuable in return. That’s the rule. I’ll get you the beads in exchange for your forgiveness and answers to three questions. And that’s my final offer.”

The goblin sighed some more and chewed its claws.

“Oh, all right,” it said irritably. “What’s the first question?”

“Have you seen a mirror, about yea big?” I made a cereal-bowl sized circle with my fingers. “It shows you things—if you know how to ask.”

The goblin rolled on the ground in another fit of howling. “You’re mocking me!” it wailed. “You’re in league with the nymph! You know about the mirror!”

“I don’t know much,” I admitted. “So what’s the connection between the mirror and the glass beads?”

The goblin sat up. “There isn’t one. That’s the problem. When she gave me the mirror, I saw the beads in it, all round and cool and green as grapes. Then she went away, and all I could see was a monster with black teeth and squinchy yellow eyes. It gave me nightmares. Woe,” the goblin howled. “Woe, woe, woe, woe—”

“Third question,” I shouted. The howling stopped. “Where is the mirror now?”

The goblin showed me its teeth. They were long, black, and pointy. “Not here.”

“That’s not a good enough answer.”

The goblin grinned wider. “It’s the only one you’re going to get. Homewrecker.”

“Fine.” I stood up. “If you don’t want those beads, I don’t care. And I can live without your forgiveness.”

“Can you?” The goblin leered at me.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m under the protection of the Green Lady of Central Park, after all. If you hurt me, you’ll have a lot more to howl about than some stupid glass beads.”

The goblin writhed unhappily. “Oh, all right. I gave the mirror to a dwarf. They’re digging up Riverside Drive, apparently. A few days ago, one of them came up here to . . . comment on my howling. He took a fancy to the mirror and we made a deal. He wouldn’t push my face in, and I’d give him the mirror and keep the howling down during working hours. He said he was dating a swan maiden at Lincoln Center, and thought she’d like it. And that’s all I know.

“Now, about those beads . . .”

The last thing I wanted to do was go chasing a marsh nymph all over a swamp. A bargain’s a bargain, but I suspected I could fudge this one, just a little. All I needed to do was display a little creative diplomacy, otherwise known as lying. “I’ve heard about those glass beads,” I said thoughtfully. “They have a special magic that will be broken if a mortal touches them.
However
,” I said as the goblin began to growl, “I have a plan so you can win them for yourself.”

The goblin stopped growling.

“Okay, here’s the plan. Challenge the nymph to the Riddle Game. I’ll give you a riddle, a new riddle, a riddle that nobody in the Green Places has ever heard before. You can win the green glass beads, plus prove you’re smarter than the nymph. It’s way better than if I did it for you.”

The goblin shot me a suspicious look. “A new riddle?”

“I made it up myself.”

“It’s not one of those bogus riddles that don’t have a real answer, is it? Because if it is, I’m not interested.”

“It has a real answer.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

The goblin thought this over, then nodded. “Fair enough. Come whisper the riddle in my ear. I’ve met Rumplestiltskin. I don’t want anybody overhearing and telling the nymph before I see her.”

My heart thumped as I leaned close to its bat-wing ear to whisper the riddle I’d stumped the Mermaid Queen with.

“A cat?” it asked. “Are you sure?”

“It’s my riddle,” I said.

The goblin shook its head. “I hope this works. I’m getting tired of all this howling.”

“So why don’t you just stop?”

“I promised the nymph I’d lie in the reeds and howl until she gave me the beads,” it said. “I’m a goblin of my word.”

 

 

T
he next day, I could hardly wait for lunch so I could talk to my friends about my conversation with the goblin. Astris hadn’t been that interested. (“How clever of you, pet. Now, what would you like for dinner?”) I wanted praise. I wanted sympathy. I wanted more information about Lincoln Center.

I’d asked Astris, of course, as soon as I got home. She knew that Lincoln Center was on Broadway, just north of the Theater District, and that its Genius was the Artistic Director. He wore white tie and tails and a white mask over his one eye. And that was it.

Of course, I hadn’t known much about any of the Neighborhoods I’d quested in last summer, either, and I’d done just fine. With a lot of help and even more luck. Not to mention my fairy twin, Changeling, who could use the Mermaid Queen’s Magic Mirror probably just as well as the Queen herself. Once Changeling got over thinking New York Between was a dream and freaking out every time something surprised her, we’d made a great team. Now she was back in New York Outside, learning about computers and social skills. I missed her.

Our table was full, but Espresso had saved me a seat across from Danskin and Stonewall.

As I sat down, Fortran leaned around Espresso. “So? How’d it go? I was right, wasn’t I? The goblin had the mirror and you’re not worried anymore?”

“Actually, I’m still worried,” I said. “The goblin gave the mirror away before I got there. To a dwarf.”

Espresso giggled.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest dwarf of all?”

“You’re a nut, Espresso. The dwarf was going to give it to his girlfriend. She’s a swan maiden at Lincoln Center.”

Danskin looked up from his smoked salmon sandwich. “Swan maiden? Did he say which one?”

“I was hoping you’d help me find out.”

Danskin frowned thoughtfully. “
Swan Lake
’s in repertory this season,” he said. “I’ll get us tickets and a backstage pass.”

I gaped at him. “Tickets? For the ballet?”

“The best way to approach a swan maiden is to tell her what a wonderful dancer she is. It works better if you’ve seen her dance.”

I tried to wrap my brain around attending an actual ballet. “Are you sure, Danskin? I’m the Wild Child, remember—I only know about Folk dancing.”

“It’s all Folk dancing, Neef. Don’t worry. I’ll do the flattering part.”

“I hate to ruin your lovely plan,” Stonewall said, “but does Neef have a quest pass?”

“Quest pass?” I asked blankly.

Mukuti swallowed a mouthful of naan. “
You
know, Neef. Rule 746: ‘No student may embark upon a personal quest or journey of discovery without a valid quest pass.’ ”

“This isn’t a personal quest,” I said. “It’s for the Park.”

Mukuti, who was clearly going to be an expert on rules when she grew up, said, “You should have one anyway. A lot of Miss Van Loon’s rules are against things you need to do on a quest, like going places without permission. A quest pass lets you break rules without getting in trouble.”

Fortran wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater. I was surprised it didn’t have a permanent red-orange stain on it, he did it so often. “It’s no fun breaking rules if you’re allowed to do it.”

“She’s not doing it for fun, Fortran,” Stonewall said. “She’s doing it for real.”

In fairy tales, quests fall into three parts:

There are rules governing each of these parts. Be kind to animals you meet in the forest. If an oven asks you to clean it, get out your rubber gloves and start scrubbing. Ask birds for directions, but not rocks or mysterious little men. If somebody offers you a choice between a box of gold, a box of silver, and a box of lead, take the lead. If you’re offered three coffee mugs, take the gold one.