The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (Fairyland 1)
The two of them began to walk west, and the chains around the Wyverary’s red wings jangled and clanked. September was not even so tall as his knee, so after a little while, he let her climb the chains and ride upon his back, sliding her sceptre through the links. September could not know that humans riding Marvelous Creatures of a Certain Size was also not allowed. A-Through-L knew, but for once he did not care.
“I shall amuse you along the way,” he boomed, “by reciting all of the things I know. Aardvark, Abattoir, Abdication, Adagio, Alligator, Araby…”
CHAPTER V
THE HOUSE WITHOUT WARNING
In Which September Measures the Distance to Pandemonium, Receives a Brief Lecture in History, Meets a Soap Golem, and Is Thoroughly Scrubbed
September bit into a fat, juicy persimmon. Well, something like a persimmon. Rather larger, greener, and tasting of blueberry cream, but it looked terribly like a persimmon, and so September had resolved to call it that. A-Through-L still worried a poor tree, which was so tall and stubbornly thick that no small girl could ever have hoped to climb it, even if she had known that there was fruit up there in its yellowy-silver branches. Still, if a dragon—a Wyvern—brings it to me, September thought, it’s dragon food and not fairy food at all, and no one should blame me for breakfast. September insisted she was full between peals of laughter, but the Wyverary seemed to delight in charging the tree with a cheerful snarl and smacking into it full force until the helpless fruit gave up and came tumbling down. After each blow, A-Through-L sat back on his enormous haunches and shook his head, sending his whiskers a-flying. The sight of it kept September laughing helplessly, her skirt tumbling-full of oozing, green-orange, blueberryish persimmons.
The sun hitched up her trousers and soldiered on up into the sky. September squinted at it and wondered if the sun here was different than the sun in Nebraska. It seemed gentler, more golden, deeper. The shadows it cast seemed more profound. But September could not be sure. When one is traveling, everything looks brighter and lovelier. That does not mean it is brighter and lovelier; it just means that sweet, kindly home suffers in comparison to tarted-up foreign places with all their jewels on.
“How far is it to Pandemonium, Ell?” yawned September. She stretched her legs, flexing the bare toe
s of her left foot.
“Can’t say, small one.” The beast thwacked into the tree again. “Pandemonium begins with P, and, therefore, I don’t know very much about it.”
September thought for a moment. “Try ‘Capital’ instead. That starts with C. And Fairyland stars with F, so you could, well, cross-reference.”
A-Through-L left off the nearly persimmon tree and cocked his head to one side like a curious German shepherd. “The capital of Fairyland is surrounded by a large, circular river,” he said slowly, as if reading from a book, “called the Barleybroom. The city consists of four districts: Idlelily, Seresong, Hallowgrum, and Mallowmead. Population is itinerant, but summer estimates hover around ten thousand daimonia—that means spirits—”
“And pan means all,” whispered September, since the Wyvern could not be expected to know, on account of the p involved. In September’s world, many things began with pan. Pandemic, Pangaea, Panacea, Panoply. Those were all big words, to be sure, but as has been said, September read often, and liked it best when words did not pretend to be simple, but put on their full armor and rode out with colors flying.
“The highest point is Groangyre Tower, home of the Royal Inventors’ Society (Madness Prerequisite), the lowest is Janglynow Flats, where once the Ondines waged their algae wars. Common imports: grain, wishing fish, bicycle parts, children, sandwiches, brandywine, silver bullets—”
“Skip to the part where it says, ‘I Am This Many Miles Away from a Girl Named September,’” suggested the girl helpfully.
A-Through-L grimaced at her, curling his scarlet lips. “All books should be so accommodating, butler-wise,” he snorted. “As you might expect, the geographical location of the capital of Fairyland is fickle and has a rather short temper. I’m afraid the whole thing moves around according to the needs of narrative.”
September put her persimmon down in the long grass. “What in the world does that mean?”
“I … I suspect it means that if we act like the kind of folk who would find a Fairy city whilst on various adventures involving tricksters, magical shoes, and hooliganism, it will come to us.”
September blinked. “Is that how things are done here?”
“Isn’t that how they’re done in your world?”
September thought for a long moment. She thought of how children who acted politely were often treated as good and trustworthy, even if they pulled your hair and made fun of your name when grown-ups weren’t around. She thought of how her father acted like a soldier, strict and plain and organized—and how the army came for him. She thought of how her mother acted strong and happy even when she was sad, and so no one offered to help her, to make casseroles or watch September after school or come over for gin rummy and tea. And she thought of how she had acted just like a child in a story about Fairyland, discontent and complaining, and how the Green Wind had come for her, too.
“I suppose that is how things are done in my world. It’s hard to see it, though, on the other side.”
“That’s what gnome ointment is for,” winked the Wyvern.
“Well, we’d better be at it, then,” said September. “At least I shall have no trouble with the shoes.” She kept a persimmon or two for a late lunch—the pockets of her smoking jacket were quite full, yet the jacket was quite sensitive about its figure and did not bulge in the slightest. A-Through-L squirmed down to the ground to allow her to climb up onto the bronze lock, where September sat pertly, clutching the wiry red stripe of fur that ran down the Wyverary’s long neck. She drew her sceptre from the belt of the smoking jacket and extended it to the horizon like a sword. Blue mountains rose on either side of their path, shining and faceted like lumps of sapphire.
“Onward, noble steed!” she cried loudly.
Nothing much happened. A few birds catcalled and trilled.
As the two of them travel along, I shall take a moment’s pause, as is my right. For it deserves remarking that if one is to obtain a monstrous companion, a Wyvern—or a Wyverary—is really a top-notch choice. Firstly, they rarely tire, and their gait is remarkably even, considering the poultrylike disposition of their feet. Secondly, when they do tire, they snore, and no ravening bandit would dare to come near. Thirdly, being French in origin, they have highly refined tastes and are unlikely to seek out unsavory things to eat, such as knights’ gallbladders or maidens’ bones. They much prefer a vat or two of truffles, a flock of geese, and a lake of wine, and they will certainly share. Lastly, their mating seasons are brief and infrequent, and the chances of experiencing one is so small as to be beyond the notice of any native guidebook or indeed the concern of any small girl with brown hair who might be utterly innocent of such things. Truly, the latter hardly bears mentioning.
September knew none of this. She knew only that A-Through-L was huge and warm and kind and smelled like roasting cinnamon and chestnuts and seemed to know simply everything. The rest of the alphabet held considerably less charm once she saw the world from her perch on his back.
A-Through-L walked late into the afternoon. The alpine grass full of little red flowers gradually turned into a wide, wet valley, full of rich chocolate mud and bright iridescent flowers nodding on pearly stalks taller than September. September tried very hard to look intrepid on her beast’s back, and Ell tried on a look of grim determination. It did not seem to be moving Pandemonium any closer to them. After a long while, she tucked the sceptre between two links of chain and laid her cheek against Ell’s back. Perhaps a city takes a long time to rouse in the morning when it has not had its breakfast yet, she thought. Or perhaps it has other young girls to tend to first.
And then, suddenly, a house rose up before them, as though it had been crouching in wait for hours and sprang out when it thought it might scare them most. It looked much like a Spanish mosque—if a giant had firmly stepped on it. All the curly door frames and tiled mosaics were broken and leaning, each blue-green wall propping up the other. Fragrant red wood lay about in rough piles, and pools of seeping black mud dotted the halls. Moss covered every shattered pillar. September and her Wyverary stood before a beautifully carved archway leading into a little courtyard, where a shabby fountain gurgled valiantly. The arch read: