The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (Fairyland 1)

Go to sleep, little skylark, do.

Go to sleep, little skylark,

Drift down through the night

In your biplane of silver and sighs,

Slip under the light,

come down from the heights

For your mother is singing for you.

Go to sleep, little skylark, do.

September reached the end of the song and began again, for Death’s eyes were sliding just the littlest bit closed. Her mother had sung that song, not since she was small, but since her father had left. When she sang it, she curled September in her arms just as September now curled Death and sang it close to her ear so that her long black hair fell over September’s brow just as the remains of September’s hair now fell on Death’s brow. She remembered her mother’s smell, the comfort of it, even though she mainly smelled of diesel oil. She loved that smell. Had learned to love it and settle into it like a blanket. When September got to the part about Neptune and Mars again, Death relaxed in her arms, her bark-brown hair falling delicately over September’s elbow. She kept singing, though it hurt her, her throat was so shriveled and sore. And as she sang, an extraordinary thing happened:

Death grew.

Death stretched and lengthened and got heavier and heavier. Her hair curled and spread, and her arms grew to the size of September’s own arms, and her legs grew to the size of September’s own legs, and in no time at all, Death was the size of a real child, and September held her still in her arms, slumped, sleeping, still.

Oh no! thought September. What have I done? If my Death has grown so big surely I am doomed!

But Death moaned in her sleep, and September saw, glinting in her mouth, something bright and hard. Death opened her mouth, yawning in her sleep. Be bold, September told herself. An irascible child should be bold. Gently, she put her blackened, sappy fingers into Death’s mouth.

“No!” cried Death dreaming. September snatched her hand back. “She loved you all those years; it was only that you couldn’t see it!”

September tried again, just grazing the thing with her fingertips.

“No!” cried Death, dreaming. September snapped back. “If you had gone right instead of left, you would have met an old man in overalls, and he would have taught you blacksmithing!”

September tried one more time, sneaking her fingers past Death’s teeth.

“No!” cried Death, dreaming. September recoiled. “If you had only given your son pencils instead of swords!”

September stopped. She felt hot all over, and the hole in her cheek itched, as though there were leaves crinkling in at its edges. She breathed deeply. September smoothed Death’s hair with her ruined hand, which was sprouting new branches even now. She bent and kissed Death’s burning brow. And then she began to sing again, softly:

“Go to sleep, little skylark…” She caught the edge of the thing.

“Fly up to the moon…” It was slippery and sharp, like glass.

“In a biplane of paper and ink…” September pulled. Death groaned. Birds flew up from the night forest, spooked.

“Your wings creak and croon, borne up by balloons…” There was a terrible creaking, crooning sound as the thing in Death’s throat came free. Death’s mouth opened horribly wide, bending back and back and back, and her whole body folded strangely back around itself as the thing emerged, so that just as September pulled it out entirely, Death vanished with a little sound like the snapping of a twig.

“And your engine is singing for you,” September finished quietly, almost whispering. In her arms, she cradled a smoky glass casket, just the size of a child. It was hung with red silk ropes and bells, and on its face was a little gold plaque. It read,

WILL HILT TO HAND YET BE RESTORED?

TAKE ME UP, THY MOTHER’S SWORD.

September ran her hands over it. She did not understand. But given a magical box, no child will leave it shut. She fumbled with the knots and rang the bells a great many times with her twiggy hands, but finally, under all that blood-colored silk was a little glass latch. September wedged her woody thumb underneath it, and all the forest echoed as it popped free.

One by one, the mushrooms that made up the Lady’s face began to peel off and float away, until September was surrounded by a gentle whirlwind of delicate, lacy mushrooms and the last curls of her own hair, gone red as knots of silk. She lifted the casket lid.

Inside was a long, sturdy wrench.

CHAPTER XIII