Martin Millar - The Good Fairies of New York.html (5 page)

Dinnie tried. He still produced a horrible noise. Heather sighed. She had far less patience as a teacher than she imagined.

'Dinnie, I can see that desperate measures are called for. And you had better believe that this is a rare honour, granted to you only because you are a MacKintosh in trouble. Also because my ears won't stand much more. Hold out your hand.'

She touched his fingers. Dinnie felt them go slightly warm.

'Now try again.'

Dinnie looked at his warm fingers, and tried again. For the first time ever, he managed to produce a sound which was tolerably close to being musical.

Aelric squatted under a bush. It was deepest night, and all of Cornwall was quiet. His five followers sat behind him, tense and ready. At Aelric's sign, they fluttered into the air, flew over the shed containing the spinning looms, magicked fire into their hands, and set it alight.

The shed burned brightly, but before the alarm was even raised Aelric and his followers had fled safely away into the night.

Aelric was the leader of the Cornish Fairy Resistance Movement, and the one ray of hope for the fairies under their oppressive leaders. However, as his resistance movement consisted of just him and five others, and Tala was by far the most powerful ruler the kingdom had ever seen, his task seemed a hopeless one.

Still, the burning of the weaving shed was a useful piece of economic sabotage. Aelric had learned about

economic sabotage from a book on terrorist tactics he had found in a human library, and so far it seemed to be working well.

Dinnie made some progress, but soon complained of sore fingers.

'Play it again,' instructed Heather.

'My fingers are sore.'

'Haud your wheesht, you fat lump,' cried the fairy eventually.

'Don't try your obscure Scottish expressions on me,' said Dinnie. 'And I would rather be a fat lump than an

eighteen-inch freak in a tacky kilt.'

'How dare you. And after me actually teaching you a tune.'

'I would have learned it anyway.'

Heather was outraged.

'You have the natural talent of a haggis,' she said, and departed into the night.

A very few people, like Kerry, are born with the natural ability to see fairies. Others, like Magenta, develop the ability through drinking strange potions like meths, boot polish and fruit juice.

'I take it you are an other-worldly servant of Tissaphernes, Persian satrap of the region?' said Magenta.

'No, I am Heather, a Scottish thistle fairy.'

Magenta was not convinced, and gripped her sword.

'Well I am Xenophon. I am leading the Greek mercenaries in aid of Cyrus, brother of King Antaxerxes, against

that same Antaxerxes. And if you are a servant of his, tell him his end is nigh.'

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A car with speakers built into the back trundled past, vibrating the area with its music.

I'd like to play my fiddle through a system like that, thought Heather, which made her think of her and Morag's plans for their band. This made her sad.

Magenta marched off, firmly and happily fixed in her fantasy.

'Everyone's yellow,' said Morag.

'We're in Chinatown,' Kerry told her.

They were taking their daily walk. While in Chinatown Kerry was on the look-out for a flower of the Ginka

Biloba, a Chinese tree.

'How did the flower from a Chinese tree end up in the ancient Celtic flower alphabet?' Morag enquired.

Kerry did not know. She supposed that the Celts were well travelled.

'Or else it used to grow in other places. Anyway, it is one of the rarities that makes my flower alphabet difficult to collect.'

Morag scanned the horizon for Ginka Bilobas. She had supposed, on first hearing of the project, that a flower alphabet meant one flower beginning with A, another with B, another with C and so on, but apparently it was more complicated than that. The flowers required corresponded to ancient Celtic symbols rather than modern English letters, and not only did they have to be the right species, but the right colour as well.

No Ginka Bilobas being in sight, Morag studied the people.

'What a place this New York is. Black people, brown people, white people, yellow people and people sort of in between. I love it.'

'So do I,' said Kerry. 'But sometimes the people fight.'

'Why?'

'Because they are different colours.'

Morag had a good laugh.

'Humans are so dumb. If fairies were all different colours, they wouldn't fight about it.'

Today Kerry had woken up cheerful, and even dealing with her colostomy bag had not depressed her. Morag knew

that it would later, however, and was still grappling with the problem of what to do about it. Being a fairy she had some magical healing powers, but these did not extend to complicated surgical matters.

A small brooch in the form of an eight-sided mirror caught Kerry's eye and she walked into the shop to look at it.

It was an unusual shop, a second-hand place full of clothes and jewellery, with a few books and cards on the

counter. Behind the counter were some old instruments. Morag examined them while Kerry asked the Chinese

owner about the brooch. It was not for sale.

'Why not?' said Morag, outside.

Kerry shrugged.

'I don't know. He just said it wasn't for sale.'

They carried on along the street and Kerry took the brooch from her pocket.

'You are an excellent shoplifter,' said Morag, admiringly. 'I didn't notice a thing.'

Morag spotted some lobsters in a large tank at the front of a restaurant.

'Why are those lobsters living in that shop?' she asked.

'They stay in that tank till a customer wants to eat them. Then they get cooked.'

'What?!'

Morag was appalled. Back in Scotland, while wandering round the east coast, she had had many pleasant

conversations with lobsters. She had no idea that people ate them. When they went home later for Kerry to eat and take part of the daily dosage of steroids that controlled her Crohn's disease, Morag felt rather depressed about it.

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She unwrapped her violin from its green cloth and placed it gently under her chin.

'That is a lovely tune,' said Kerry.

'Thank you. It is a well-known Scottish lament. Although to tell you the truth I am a little bored with this sort of thing. If Heather hadn't been such an ignorant little besom and got us thrown out of Scotland in disgrace, our radical Celtic thrash band would have been rousing the nation at this very moment.'

The sight and sound of Morag gloomily toying with a mournful lament made Kerry sad as well and by the time

twilight came they both agreed that the only thing to do was go to bed depressed with the phone muffled by a

pillow.

Kerry said goodnight to her flowers, kissed the fabulous Welsh poppy, and lay down to sleep.

Downstairs in the theatre across the road Cal was auditioning young actresses for the part of Titania in
A
Midsummer Night's Dream.

Heather looked on with some annoyance.

'None of them was anything like a fairy queen,' she complained later to Dinnie, but Dinnie was too busy smearing extra peanut butter on his chocolate cookies to take much notice.

'I followed a bag lady yesterday,' continued Heather. 'She was under the illusion that she was Xenophon, an

Athenian mercenary in the year 401 BC, going to fight for Cyrus, the pretender to the Persian throne, against his brother Antaxerxes.'

'I hate the way you make up these stupid stories,' said Dinnie. 'Leave me in peace.'

Unable to sleep, Morag rose and determined to free the lobsters.

'Poor little things.'

She hopped on a car heading downtown, feeling adventurous.

'Rather like James MacPherson,' she muttered. James Mac-Pherson was a famous robber and fiddler in

seventeenth-century Scotland and a good friend to the fairies, before he was hanged.

On the next street a firecracker went off, and a few folk were out on the sidewalk, but it was mainly quiet.

She found the restaurant and waved a cheery hello to the lobsters. Setting them free was not difficult. Most locks are no trouble for a fairy to pick and soon she had sent them swimming to safety down the sewers.

A spectacular success! thought Morag. A triumph in fact. A smooth operation, entirely without hitch. MacPherson the Robber himself could not have done better.

'And what exactly do you think you're doing robbing a restaurant on our patch?' demanded a voice behind her.

Morag whirled round, and found to her great surprise that there was a very angry-looking fairy with yellow skin and slanting eyes glowering at her.

Morag fled.

On the corner of Canal Street she hopped on a passing motorcycle which raced away much faster than she could

fly and she hung on for dear life. Behind her an angry horde of Chinese fairies waved their fists at her and looked for vehicles to mount to pursue her.

'White devil!' they screamed. 'Raiding our restaurants.'

As the motorbike reached 4th Street Morag risked injury with a spectacular leap on to the ground, then ran for home. A quick glance over her shoulder showed no one in pursuit. She prayed that she had shaken them off.

Fortunately for her the motorcyclist had been drunk and had driven like a madman.

Aha! thought Magenta, creeping up Broadway and seeing the Chinese fairies in unsuccessful pursuit of Morag.

Early skirmishes. Antaxerxes has sent out his captain Tissaphernes and a host of oriental soldiers. She realised that battle was near and, to steady her nerves, had a good pull at her bottle of Fitzroy cocktail. The boot polish stained her lips a grim purple colour but she was much heartened.

Thinking that she should take cover she headed for East 4th Street and ducked into the theatre.

Inside, Cal was giving instructions to the actor playing Theseus, Duke of Athens.

'You're a duke. Be regal.'

'Preposterous,' announced Magenta, appearing in the wings. 'Theseus was never Duke of Athens.'

'What?'

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'Theseus was never Duke of Athens. The rank of duke was unknown in Athens for one thing.'

'Well, how the hell do you know?' demanded Cal.

Magenta drew herself up. Magenta had not been weakened by her life on the streets. Thirty-five years old and

muscular, with short cropped iron-grey hair, she could be an intimidating sight when roused.

'How do I know?' I was born there.'

'Beat it, bag lady,' said the performer.

Magenta dealt him a dismissive blow on the ear.

'I resign,' said the actor, from the floor. 'Serious performers cannot work in these conditions.'

Morag sped into Kerry's room, safe home. Kerry had woken up and was sitting on a cushion making a hat to match her light blue hair, drinking beer and listening to the radio.

'Devilish yellow fairies— ' began Morag, but Kerry interrupted her.

'Morag, I was just thinking about you. Listen to the news.'

The newscaster was describing the day's events in Brooklyn, where there had been serious trouble between

Koreans and Dominicans after a fight in a deli. The incident had developed into a major disturbance, and the deli was now surrounded by pickets.

'Another race row,' said Kerry. 'What a pity humans cannot be like fairies, as you mentioned this morning.'

'Right,' said Morag, looking at the ceiling.

Kerry switched off the radio and looked thoughtful.

'What does "devilish yellow fairies" mean?'

'Nothing. Nothing at all. Just a pleasant Scots blessing. We often say it on meeting an old friend.'

Morag hunted out her whisky supply and made for the bed.

'I think I'll go to sleep now. If anyone calls, tell them I'm not in.'

'Do you have to sit on my shoulder?' complained Dinnie.

'Why not? It's a good fat shoulder. Lots of room.'

'My shoulder is not fat.'

'Yes, it is.'

They stopped on the corner to argue. This heated discussion between a violinist and an invisible fairy would have drawn attention in some places. On a corner of East 4th Street, no one took any notice.

They walked on, Dinnie more grumpy than usual but Heather completely unaffected by the argument. Dinnie was

on his way to the supermarket on Second Avenue where he could shop cheaply and buy his favourite cookies.

'Any change?' asked a beggar. Dinnie ignored her. Dinnie's meanness saddened Heather. She did not think it was fitting for a MacKintosh to refuse to help the poor.

'She doesn't have a home. It is terrible not to have a home.'

'I couldn't care less. If you're so bothered about it, go and build her one. It'll get you out of my hair.'

'I've never been in your hair. It is too dirty.'

Dinnie had thick black hair, bushy and uncombed. Along with his height, this sometimes gave him a wild-man

look, particularly when he had not shaved — either because he could not be bothered or because he could not get the hot water to work.

He did not appreciate personal criticism from a fairy and endeavoured to walk on in silence. This was not possible with Heather on his shoulder.

'Why does steam rise from the pavement?'

'I've no idea. And they're called sidewalks.'

'Really? Are we almost there yet?'

'No.'

'Fine. I'll tell you a story while we're travelling. I'll tell the sad tale of why I was expelled from the lovely lochs and glens of Scotland. Why I can never go back to see the beautiful heather-covered hills and the snow-tipped peaks of Glencoe. How I am for ever denied the pleasure of heather ale and whisky, as expertly brewed and