Changeling Page 2

  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

  STICKS AND STONES MAY BREAK YOUR BONES, BUT WORDS CAN GET YOU IN A LOT OF TROUBLE.

  Neef’s Rules for Changelings

  After its gentle beginning, the path curved steeply up over boulders and knobbly tree roots. I squashed the thought that the stairs would have been easier and scrambled on. The path narrowed, twisted up along the side of a particularly craggy rock, plunged down a slope thick with slippery pine needles, and finally trickled out into a swampy green pool at the foot of a gigantic, half-rotten willow tree.

  I flopped down on a stump and looked around. Behind the pool and the willow, the woods made a solid wall of green and brown. The path had totally disappeared.

  My heart thumped painfully. What lived in swamps? Water-horses and vodyanoi, mostly. I knew how to deal with them. Or there could be a demon living in the willow. Whatever it was, I was ready for it.

  “What have we here, my dear, a-wandering in the woods? Is it tender? Is it delicious?”

  The voice seemed to come from the pool. It sounded like sharp teeth and hunger. The hair on my neck prickled with excitement.

  “Peace be upon you, good Folk,” I said, maybe louder than I needed to. “I am under the protection of the Genius of Central Park.”

  “Awwww,” a second voice said. It was as hungry as the first, but higher and whinier. “It knows the words.”

  “Of course it does,” the toothy voice said. “It’s a clever little changeling girl, isn’t it, dear? And it’s been well taught. What’s your name, little changeling?”

  Here’s where I should have kept my mouth shut and called the Pooka to come get me. But I should have stayed on the main path, too, and there’s not much point in choosing to have a real adventure if you’re going to scream for rescue as soon as anything interesting happens. It wasn’t like I was in any real danger or anything, I reminded myself—not as long as I didn’t tell the voice my name. You’d have to be dumber than Little Red Baseball Cap to tell anybody your real name in New York Between. It gives them too much power over you.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” I said.

  “There, dear,” said the voice. “Didn’t I say she was clever?”

  The second voice sighed. “This is boring. What say we leave her here until she’s dead, dead, dead, and then we eat her? The Lady couldn’t get us for that, could she?”

  “It may be an idea, dear,” the first voice said. “But it’s a very stupid one. Don’t be frightened, little changeling,” it went on soothingly. “Blueberry here was only joking. We wouldn’t dream of hurting a hair on your little head.”

  It hadn’t sounded like Blueberry was joking to me, but I laughed anyway, to show that I wasn’t scared. And I wasn’t. Really. I was just thinking that this adventure wasn’t going anywhere, and I might as well leave. But when I turned around, the path had disappeared behind a thicket of thorny brambles.

  I started to feel just a little nervous. “Ha-ha,” I said. “Very funny. Could you put the path back, please? Astris of Belvedere Castle is expecting me back soon, and if I don’t show up, she’ll come looking for me. You wouldn’t like that.”

  “Oh, no,” the voice bubbled. “We’re old friends, Astris and I. I was at your Changing, you know. Let me take a closer look at you.”

  As I watched, the pool kind of sucked itself up and swirled around and turned into an old bogeywoman. She was short and onion-shaped from the layers and layers of ratty, wet skirts and shawls she had on. Her nails were long and black, and her thin gray hair dripped over her head and shoulders like a string mop. She had a round, pale face and round, muddy eyes, and a smile like a row of green knives. That, and the way she was looking at me as if I were a double-dipped chocolate ice-cream cone, told me that she rode with the Wild Hunt.

  “Hello there, dear. You can call me Peg Powler. My, how you’ve grown! But then, you would, wouldn’t you? Being a mortal child and all. Let me see, what did Astris call you? Oh, I remember now. Neef.”

  My first thought was that when Astris found out I’d talked to Peg Powler of the Wild Hunt, she was going to kill me, or at least put me to sleep for a hundred years.

  My second thought was that if I could get out of this by myself, she’d never have to know.

  Peg spread herself comfortably on a stone like a huge and very ugly toad. “It’s too beautiful a day to be running errands for a rat, even a fairy one. Sit down, dear, and let’s have a chat. Blueberry, will you join us?”

  “No,” said the second voice sulkily. “I’m hungry.”

  Peg grinned greenly at me. “Blueberry’s just shy. It’ll come out when it’s ready. Now. What shall we tal
k about? Oh, I know. We’ll talk about dancing. Do you like to dance, dear?”

  As it happens, I do. When I was little, Astris had sent me to the peri Iolanthe for dancing lessons, and I really got into it. I always went to the full-moon dances on Gathering Nights, although someone always made me stop dancing just when I was starting to have fun. But I wasn’t about to talk about that with Peg Powler. I shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  “Oh, I think you like it more than that, dear. I’ve seen you at the Gatherings, kicking up your mortal heels in the fairy ring just as if you’d been born to it.”

  “Why ask me if you already know the answer? Yes, I like to dance. So what? I like hamburgers, too, and chocolate and those mortal magazines I find in the Park. Have you ever seen Glamour or Macworld? They’re awesome.”

  Peg ignored this. “I was just wondering, dear, seeing how good a dancer you are and how much you enjoy it, why we never see you at the Solstice Dance?”

  When Peg said “Solstice Dance,” the trees cracked overhead, the air thickened, and my skin prickled all over. I felt as if the whole Park was listening for my answer. The embarrassing thing was, I didn’t have one.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What’s the Solstice Dance?”

  The feeling of waiting and listening swelled suddenly and popped. Peg’s smile grew until the ends disappeared behind her ears.

  “You don’t know about the Solstice Dance? You’re pulling Old Peg’s leg, dear. Everyone dances at the Solstice Dance. The ghosts dance and the ghouls dance. The veela dance and the vampires dance. The dragons and the griffins and shapeshifters dance. Even the Geniuses dance at the Solstice Dance, dear. Even the changelings.”

  Now that was weird, because I’d never met another mortal changeling in the Park. In fact, I’d never met another mortal changeling at all. I couldn’t be sure that I hadn’t seen one, especially at the Museum, where Folk come from all over the City to play with the exhibits. But there are so many Supernaturals who can look like mortals that it’s impossible to tell who’s what without getting close enough to check out their feet or their ears or how long their fingers are or whether their shadows match their shapes. And the guards and docents didn’t approve of me talking to tourists, so I couldn’t ask.

  “Mortals aren’t allowed in the Park,” I told Peg Powler.

  Peg raised her claws in the air. “Astris never told you that, dear! Not in so many words: That would be a lie. Far be it from me to speak ill of your godmother, but rumor has it that poor Astris has a bad history with changelings. Oh my, yes. There was the one that drowned in the Reservoir and the one that fell off the top of Belvedere Castle and that other one that came to grief on Sheep’s Meadow. Quite by accident, of course—they weren’t watching where they were going. But still. And then we had a feast.” She licked her lipless mouth.

  I went cold all over. “That’s a lie! Astris is the best fairy godmother in New York!”

  “Is she, dear? Well, we’ll see. When you get back to that drafty Castle of yours, just tell her what I’ve said, and see what her reaction is.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I will. She’ll say that you’re making it all up.”

  “Oh no, dear, I’m not making it up. Old Peg’s got her little ways, but she doesn’t invent things. She can’t. Astris lost those changelings before they were full grown. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows about the Solstice Dance, too. There are two, you know, one at Midwinter and one at Midsummer. Winter is the longest, but summer is best. The trees dance in the summer, dear, and the fire Folk dance fireworks in the sky. But you won’t see it, will you, dear? You won’t be there.”

  The willow leaves rustled and a demon appeared, swinging from a slender branch. It was blue, with purple tusks, and it was grinning from ear to pointed ear. “Poor little changeling,” it cooed. “Can’t come to the dance. It’s not Folk, it’s not fowl, and it’s not good red herring. I bet it tastes good, though.”

  That did it. This adventure was officially out of control. I needed rescuing and I needed it fast. Groping in my pocket for the hair from the Pooka’s tail, I brought it to my mouth, blew on it, and whispered:

  By thy oath and by thy faith,

  Come thou quickly by me.

  Gallop, gallop to my aid;

  Danger draweth nigh me.

  Before I’d finished, I heard something crashing around in Peg’s bramble thicket.

  “Over here, Pooka!” I shouted. “I’m over here, by the big willow!”

  Peg Powler laughed. “Did I frighten you, dear? Or was it Blueberry? What a pity, when we were having such a nice chat.” She heaved herself to her feet. “Say hello to Astris for me, dear. Peg Powler. Don’t forget. Tootle-bye!”

  “Tootle-bye!” echoed the blue demon and, sticking out a tongue like a raspberry Popsicle, it vanished. All that was left was the swaying willow and the bright stream and the stony path and a pony with flaming yellow eyes and bramble scratches on his glossy black sides.

  I ran to the pony and threw my arms around his neck. “Oh, Pooka. Am I ever glad to see you.”

  The Pooka shook himself free. “I can’t entirely return the sentiment,” he said, “seeing as how I’d rather be where I was when you called me, and you in no danger that I can see.”

  “Well, I’m not in danger now,” I said. “It went away when it heard you.”

  “Taking the brambles with it, the creature,” the Pooka said. “Do you know who it was, at all?”

  This was not a conversation I wanted to have. At best, it was going to lead to a lecture on talking to strangers. At worst, the Pooka would tell Astris I’d disobeyed her and I’d get locked up in my tower room with only Satchel for company until I’d sorted a pile of seeds by size or something equally lame.

  “Some fat old bogeywoman and her demon friend,” I said. “I didn’t like her teeth.”

  The Pooka shook his mane thoughtfully. “Teeth, is it? A Wild Hunter, without a doubt. Did you speak with her?”

  “I gave her the words,” I said, which was true as far as it went.

  “It could be worse,” the Pooka said. “Using the words was almost as clever as leaving the path in the first place was foolish. Where were you going, then, all on your own-some in the North Woods? Running away from spring cleaning, were you?”

  Relieved to be on firmer ground, I told him about the mice and the turtles and the ghosts and the squirrels and what a mess my room was and how Astris had decided that I was big enough to fetch the Blockhouse brownie by myself.

  The Pooka’s black sides rounded in a windy sigh. “Then I’d best take you to the Blockhouse and carry the pair of you back to the Castle. Not that you don’t deserve to walk.”

  “I know, Pooka,” I said. “Thank you, Pooka.” And I scrambled up onto his back.

  On the way up to the Blockhouse, I persuaded him not to tell Astris about my adventure in the North Woods. It wasn’t hard. The Pooka may be my fairy godfather, but he’s still a trickster.

  CHAPTER 3

  HE WHO WISHES TO FLY THROUGH THE AIR CAN END UP IN A DRAGON’S CLAWS.

  Neef’s Rules for Changelings

  By the time the Pooka dropped the brownie and me off at the Castle, Astris had the turtles gleaming and the mice nearly packed and ready to move to their summer quarters. Eldritch shrieking from the basement told me that the ghosts were still tangled in the cobwebs.

  Astris didn’t look at me, but her whiskers let me know she was not happy I’d been gone so long. All she actually said was, “Be welcome to this house, brownie. Please excuse the mess. You know how it is when you’re in the middle of cleaning—it always looks worse before it looks better.” The brownie nodded sympathetically. “I’ve got things down here pretty well under control, but Neef’s room is a wreck. We won’t get it clean this side of Midsummer without your help. Do you mind?”

  Like the brownie had a choice. Cleaning is what brownies do, if you ask, until you give them some old clothes, which makes them go away. That was my fairy godmother:
as good as she was beautiful and always considerate. It was possible she hadn’t told me about the changelings who died because she didn’t want to freak me out.

  I felt a tug on my shirttail. “Earth to Neef!” Astris said. “Show the brownie your room and explain to it why your magazine collection isn’t trash. Don’t give it your old clothes until the place is spick-and-span—by my standards, not yours. And go straight to bed when you’re done. You look exhausted.”

  Which showed how distracted she was, because Astris is usually good at telling when I’m upset. Which I was. Very. In fact, when the brownie wanted to throw out my rocks and my leaf collection as well as my magazines, I yelled at it not to touch my stuff.

  I apologized right away, of course—insulted brownies can do a lot of damage. The brownie sighed deeply, then used the rocks and magazines to build a kind of bench under the south-facing window. It decorated the walls with the leaves, it polished my silverware, and it cleaned the glass. To make up for yelling, I swept the stone floor and sprinkled it with rosemary.

  When the room was as tidy as it was going to get, I bundled all my too-small clothes into the brownie’s spindly arms. “Here you go,” I said. “Thank you for organizing everything.”

  The brownie shrugged and vanished.

  I wasn’t even slightly sleepy, so I perched on my new window seat and looked south, toward Midtown. Evening was drawing in. The shadows were taking over the Park and the trees of the Ramble rustled and murmured to one another below my window. A hazy light pulsed in a thicket—a will-o’-the-wisp waiting for a traveler it could lead astray. Brighter lights began to wink on in the buildings beyond the Park. Everything in Central Park was peaceful and ordinary. Except me.