Martin Millar - The Good Fairies of New York.html (12 page)

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Cyrus might be dead, but she was not returning home without some profit. The triple-bloomed Welsh poppy and a small and gleaming octagonal mirror had plummeted down into her lap from the sky. Recognising valuable booty

when she saw it, Xenophon gathered them up and hurried off.

'Well, I wasn't to know you were involved in some shady dealing on behalf of that dumb woman Kerry,' protested Heather. 'I thought you were being mugged.'

Heather was indignant. She had risked her life to save a fellow Scot from the enemy and all she got was abuse.

'Now we don't have the mirror any more and neither do we have the flower. You have ruined everything. Why do

you have to leap into everything feet first? Or sword first?'

'We MacKintoshes are used to fighting,' replied Heather, stiffly. 'Remember, we had to hold off the filthy

Camerons for generations.'

'I thought it was the MacPhersons,' said Dinnie.

'We had a feud with the Camerons as well. A desperate affair, though not as bad as the one we had with the

disgusting Comyns. Now that was a feud. Bloody deaths everywhere.'

Dinnie shook his head in despair. Morag departed in disgust.

'To hell with it,' sneered Heather. 'Last time I risk my life for her. Still, I am interested to learn that Kerry wants to win the East 4th Street Community Arts Prize. That piece of information is bound to come in useful to us.'

She returned to the subject of Dinnie's diet.

'For the meantime you will have to make do without the Chinese cabbage leaves.'

'What? You expect me to eat these nuts on their own? You promised me green vegetables.'

'Well you can hardly expect me to come back with an armful of Chinese cabbage leaves when the entire market

was filled with yellow fairies hacking at me with curved swords and axes, can you? You'll just have to make do.

Now excuse me, I am off for a well-earned dram.'

'Surely it can be repaired?'

'No, it can't.'

Morag was lying face down on a cushion, her head resting heavily on a cassette of L 7's new album. In normal

times she liked the way these women screamed and hit their guitars, but now she was in the depths of incurable depression. Her rescue mission had gone disastrously wrong and her fiddle was still in ruins.

'This fiddle is the product of Callum MacHardie and he is the finest fiddle maker in Scotland. The MacHardies, fairies and humans, have always made the best fiddles. This one took Callum three years to make and another's year's wait before varnishing. It's made of maple and pine and ebony and boxwood, and the amber varnish Callum uses is a secret only he knows. Now it's in bits. I don't even know if Callum himself could fix it if he had it in his workshop under the Sacred Ash Tree. Who could repair it here?'

'New York must have skilled violin makers.'

'Would they work on a fiddle four inches long?'

Kerry sprawled on the cushion beside Morag. Her most precious flower was missing. It could not be replaced.

After Morag fell from the sky during the fiasco with the Chinese fairies, the original had again disappeared, and she had already scoured the wasteland where it had grown. There was nothing else there like it.

Kerry played a listless version of the New York Dolls' 'Lonely Planet Boy', but without Morag playing along it didn't feel the same and they soon lapsed into listening to gloomy Swans records instead.

There were three weeks left before the closing date for entries to the Arts competition. Kerry, who would have had her work cut out gathering the remaining flowers even without the recent setbacks, seemed to be defeated. Cal and his version of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
seemed destined to win the prize, no matter how terrible his version file:///Users/lisa/Downloads/Martin%20Millar%20-%20The%20Good%20Fairies%20of%20New%20York.html

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might turn out to be. The only other entrants Kerry knew of were poets, and poets were not fashionable right now.

Unexpectedly, Heather flew in the window. She felt that some sort of apology was in order and, having drunk

enough whisky, had come to make it. She said she was sorry about the mix-up and volunteered to do all she could to help rectify the situation.

In this she was quite sincere, although it was at the back of her mind that the more she knew about Kerry's flower alphabet the more likely it was that she could make something out of it to benefit Dinnie. She was careful to give no hint of this, knowing that Morag would be irate at the thought of a match between her pleasant friend and the unlovely Dinnie.

It was a beautiful day in Cornwall, the sort of day when fairies should be out playing music and sniffing flowers.

Most of them were toiling in workhouses, however, and the few that weren't were hiding in a barn, plotting

revolution.

'So, Aelric, what's the next step?'

'Further economic disruption,' said Aelric.

'But there are not enough of us to ruin the King's economy as you say we must.'

Aelric admitted that this was true and told them the next stage was to spread the revolt.

'A peasants' revolution is what we need, although how we manage this I am not sure. From the subject index in the library, Chairman Mao seems to be the acknowledged expert on the subject, but there are an awful lot of books by him and I haven't quite mastered his tactics yet.'

They all prayed to Dianna, Goddess of the Fairies, for help because it would have been quite shocking for them not to, even if, as Aelric had discovered, Chairman Mao had decidedly strong views against this sort of thing.

Morag sat with Heather on the fire escape outside Dinnie's.

'Don't worry,' Heather comforted her. 'Your hair is looking beautiful with all its colours and the beads Kerry gave you suit you really well. And when we get back to Scotland you can get a new fiddle. You are such a great player that Callum MacHardie will be happy to make you a bonnie new one, even if he does disapprove of you playing

Ramones tunes on it. And in the meantime, you can share mine.'

Morag's spirits rose slightly. It was good at least to be friends with Heather again.

'Having a nice rest?' came Dinnie's voice from behind.

Dinnie was scowling. Something he would not admit even to himself was that he was jealous of the relationship between Heather and Morag. He did not wish them to be friends again in case Heather left him alone.

'You're meant to be giving me a violin lesson.'

'Hold your wheesht,' said Heather, brusquely.

'What?'

'Be quiet,'

'Oh, fine,' said Dinnie. 'Abuse me. I don't remember that being part of our bargain.'

'What bargain?' asked Morag.

'Nothing, nothing,' chirped Heather.

They began to talk together in Gaelic, which made Dinnie more frustrated. A pleasantly malicious thought entered his head. He could think of one very easy way to get rid of Morag and put one over on Heather, whom he still

resented for making him diet.

'When you've quite finished, Heather, could you get on with teaching me how to play my fine MacPherson

Fiddle?'

There was a brief silence.

'Fine what?' said Morag.

Heather paled slightly.

'Nothing, nothing.'

'He said fine MacPherson Fiddle,' stated Morag. 'And I am beginning to have one of those psychic insights which .

. . '

She sped across the room and climbed right on to the instrument to study it. Heather placed her tiny hand across file:///Users/lisa/Downloads/Martin%20Millar%20-%20The%20Good%20Fairies%20of%20New%20York.html

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her brow and rested her head against the filthy cooker. She knew what was coming.

Morag shrieked with delight.

'It's the MacPherson Fiddle! The real MacPherson Fiddle. You found it!'

She danced around happily.

'What a wonderful coincidence. The treasure of my clan, right here in East 4th Street. And the only fiddle I would rather play than my own! Everything is turning out well. Heather, help me shrink it to our size so I can play!'

'She will do no such thing,' declared Dinnie, smugly. 'It's mine until I hand it over to Heather. That's our bargain.

So beat it.'

'What does he mean?' asked Morag. 'It obviously should be mine. I'm a MacPherson.'

'She has a bargain with me,' repeated Dinnie, 'which cannot be broken.'

'Is this true?'

'Well. . . ' said Heather, who could neither deny nor break the bargain.

'But my fiddle is broken. I need it.'

'Tough,' said Dinnie, who was enjoying himself greatly.

Morag erupted in a terrible fury. Heather had never seen her in such a state. Morag claimed the fiddle as hers by right of being a MacPherson and called Heather a thief, a cheat and a liar.

Dinnie chuckled to himself. He had known very well what would happen if Morag found out about the bargain.

'I can't help it,' protested Heather. 'I made the bargain with the human and a good thistle fairy is not allowed to break a bargain.'

Morag's pale skin was scarlet with rage.

'The violin belongs to my clan, you lizard.'

'Please, Morag . . . '

'And you are a goblin fucker and a disgrace to Scotland.'

This was too much, even for a contrite Heather.

'Well, you ignorant MacPhersons shouldn't have lost it in the first place.'

'You MacKintoshes are all scum,' yelled Morag. 'I spit in your mother's milk!'

With this approximation of an insult she'd picked up in a Mexican restaurant, Morag stormed out of the window.

Heather hung her head. What a disaster. Thank the Goddess Morag had not thought to ask what the other half of the bargain was. If she discovered that Heather was intending to pair off Dinnie and Kerry, things might have got violent.

'Dear, dear,' said Dinnie. 'What a terrible argument. How tactless of me.'

Heather gave him a ferocious glower but did not argue.

'Next lesson. Holding the bow. And this time try not to saw the damn thing in half.'

Everywhere there were dissatisfied fairies. While Heather and Morag had their own various problems, they had

caused problems for others as well.

'Where does this money come from?' asked both Dinnie and Kerry, noticing that both Heather and Morag liked to keep the houses well stocked with provisions.

'Standard fairy magic,' lied Heather and Morag.

But in Grand Street the Italian fairies were most unhappy. Unknown strangers kept robbing their human allies'

banks.

'Four times this month,' they grumbled. 'We cannot let our Italian friends' businesses be ruined by these thieves.'

On Canal Street the Chinese fairies were still fuming over the theft of their Bhat Gwa mirror. This important icon had been given to the Chinese fairies two thousand years ago by the blessed Lao Tzu before he departed the Earth.

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It was their greatest treasure and was housed in the shop of Hwui-Yin as a symbol of friendship between fairies and humans.

Now, on the verge of seeing it returned, they had been frustrated by another unknown fairy who had brandished a sword at them and screamed abuse in a horrible barbaric accent.

'We are a peaceable tribe. But we cannot tolerate this.'

They wondered who was responsible. It could be the Italian fairies, whom they had known in the past but had no contact with now, even though they lived only a few blocks away.

In Harlem there was great upset over the incident in the bar. It was most impolite for strangers to come and rob a place in their territory and the violent threats from the red-haired stranger caused great concern.

'We have not seen any other fairies here for generations,' they said. 'And now they come like thieves. We must prepare for the worst.'

In Central Park, Brannoc was extremely dissatisfied. He had just found Tulip and Petal making love

enthusiastically under a rose bush. It was not taboo for a fairy brother and sister to have sex, but it annoyed the hell out of Brannoc. He burned with jealousy.

Maeve and Padraig were drunk and maudlin. They sat in a tree playing their tin whistles. Brannoc had to admit he was impressed at the way these Irish musicians could still play so well after drinking so much, but he was not in the mood to be appreciative.

Petal and Tulip were nowhere in sight. Presumably they were still practising their youthful fairy sex techniques, although from what Brannoc had seen they seemed fairly advanced already.

Brannoc felt lonely. It struck him that only a little way to the north were a whole new tribe of fairies he could be friendly with. If he was to go back he was sure he could make good the argument. He was a reasonable fairy. He saw no reason why they should not be. It was not good to make enemies in this strange place.

'Where are you going?' called Padraig.

'To make peace with the black fairies,' he replied.

'Good luck. Bring us some whisky.'

In Cornwall also there was great dissatisfaction. The fairies of the land were no longer allowed to pay tribute to their Goddess Dianna. Her festivals had been replaced by ceremonies dedicated to a strong new god who would

defeat their enemies.

The moon appeared from behind the clouds. Magris spoke a few more words of the old tongue and a moonbow in

seven shades of grey slid out of the sky.

Half of the mercenary band climbed the moonbow and made their way up into the night. They climbed without a