30 January 2010

The Saturday Issue, vol. 1

My name is Isabella Avery. Most people call me Mockin’bird. Don’t ask, trust me. I am an agent of AAPIF, the American Association for the Preservation of Immigrant Faeries. I’ve got a new partner these days: my cousin Gully. His real name’s Gilbert, but don’t hold that against him. He came to live with my family a while back; his parents are with the AAPIf (the Association for the Preservation of Immigrant fairies; believe me there’s a difference) just like my parents and I are with Immigrant Faeries, and Gully preferred faeries to fairies – who could blame him? There are a whole slew of organizations beginning with AAPI; the only thing that really means anything is the last letter – G for giants, O for ogres, D for dragons, FG and fG for faerie and fairy godmothers, respectively… you get the idea. Our family has belonged to one or other of them for generations. That’s ’cause we have the gift. The gift of duality of sight. We can see the immigrants from Faerie as well as Faerie itself. Of course, that doesn’t mean we’re actually allowed into Faerie, not without a passport; it is an international border, of sorts. But then, accidents do happen, especially when the equation goes something like this: Faeries + fairies + humans + Faerie + continent of North America. The particular accident I had in mind was… … “Good Morning Young Lady of the House!” Mockin’bird cringed. She hated the Cheerful Demon doorstep-fairy. That was at the best of times. At 7:30 in the morning, she loathed the little creature. Hugging her coat tighter, she tried to lock the front door faster, but her fingers were cold. Then she dropped her key, and went after it muttering bitterly. “How Pleasant It Is To Have Someone Step Over The Threshold On This Glorious Morning!” the fairy trilled, hovering over Mockin’bird’s head as she scrabbled around in the snow. Once her fingers grasped the key, she straightened abruptly, half hoping to bat the demon out of the park with a head on collision. It didn’t happen. So Mockin’bird just hurried away down the street, hugging the hood of her coat around her ears to block out the noise of the professional doorstep keeper, who yelled messages of good cheer after her all the way until she rounded the corner at the end of the block. When she reached the financial district, she looked around to find a registered pigeon (actually a variety of hobgoblin in disguise). She soon found the one she was looking for and paid the toll required for passage, sprinkling a few bread crumbs onto the sidewalk. The bird eyed her morosely. It shook its feathers out and began eating. A moment later her cousin stood next to her, looking a little green. He didn’t handle pigeon passage very well. “Those birds get dirtier every time I fly,” he complained. “Never mind that; did you get the evidence or not?” she asked, tucking her hands under her arms for warmth. She never could keep track of mittens or gloves. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. But let’s get back to the house where it’s warm, OK?” They were about to walk back the way Mockin’bird had come when the pigeon squawked indignantly. When they turned back, they saw that the bird had once again shaken its feathers, and a small, cloth wrapped bundle had fallen out. “You forget something?” Mockin’bird asked. Gully shook his head. “Huh-uh, it isn’t mine,” they stared at the bird who stared back. Finally it seemed to sigh. Disgustedly, it looked over each shoulder to see if anyone was around. It was a Saturday morning after a fresh snow fall, so no one was. The pigeon’s beak slowly and painfully morphed out of shape and into something more like a human mouth. “‘All passengers must dismount carrying every item they came aboard with,’ that’s regulations, that is.” “Look,” Mockin’bird tried, “it’s not hi-” “No exceptions!” screeched the bird-shaped hobgoblin. It glared at them one last time, shook its wings and flew off. Gully looked after the bird with distaste while Mockin’bird watched the parcel as if it might bite. She pulled at the corners of her eyes in a special way to try and see through the wrapping. She was pretty good at that spell, but hadn’t practiced it in a while. Her concentration taken up she didn’t notice Gully reaching for the package until it was too late. “Gully! No!” She grabbed his arm, just as the rift began to open. One moment in a normal, if deserted, city street in the US, the next sucked into Faerie. If Mockin’bird had thought it was cold in America, it was nothing compared to where they were now, and the snow was a lot deeper; it was up to her knees at least. The wind was busy scouring the faces of some large rocks off to the left, but it gladly took time to bestow its attentions on Mockin’bird. Gully was not beside her. As she swung round to see where he’d gotten too, she saw something else that was, oh, so much less welcome: a pack of hungry, yellow-eyed wolves. Well, this was Faerie after all, what had she been expecting? “Oh, fudge,” she murmured. TO BE CONTINUED…

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