Martin Millar - The Good Fairies of New York.html (11 page)

'Fill your bottles with whisky and pouches with tobacco as fast as you can, then get out of there. The sooner we're back in the park the better.'

'Harlem's Friendliest Bar' said a newly painted sign outside. They hurried in. The bar was quiet. A few customers sat with beers, watching the television up on the wall. Unseen, the fairies set to work. They pressed their wine skins to the whisky optics and gathered up tobacco from behind the bar.

'Just like the time we raided O'Shaugnessy's in Dublin,' whispered Maeve, and Padraig managed a nervous grin.

'And did we not get ruined that night!'

It was a smooth operation. Within minutes the five of them were gathered at the door ready to return to their sanctuary.

'Everyone ready?' said Brannoc. 'Okay, let's go.'

'Correct me if I'm wrong,' said a voice behind them, 'but have you just been robbing this bar?'

They spun round, shocked. Standing there were two black fairies, and they did not seem at all pleased.

Unaware of the other-worldly drama on the sidewalk, humans walked back and forth. A group of three men, fresh from a meeting concerning the setting up of a fund to help destitute former baseball players, strolled into the bar to discuss the day's progress. Two construction workers walked in to spend the rest of the afternoon eking out one beer each, because these days the construction business was terrible.

'Construction spending fell 2.6 per cent last year', it said in their trade paper. No one seemed to have any money to give them work.

The barman sympathised with their troubles. His trade was not good either.

Outside, the fairies fled.

Forty-two mercenaries gathered at nightfall on Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. Magris looked down at them and up at

the clouds. Muttering a few words of the old tongue he magicked up a light fall of rain. As a scientist Magris disliked magic, but it had its uses. He waited for the moon to appear.

The mercenaries were homeless fairies from around the British Isles — Scottish Red Caps, English Spriggans,

Welsh Bwbachods, and Irish Firbolgs. They stood, silent and grim, and waited. Twenty-one of the mercenaries

would begin a determined search-and-destroy mission against Aelric, while the other twenty-one were to cross

over to America on the moonbow and capture the fugitives.

Back in Central Park, Tulip was gloomy.

'That was very unfortunate.'

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'Yes,' agreed Petal. 'It should have been nice meeting other fairies. I'd no idea there were any here.'

'I tried my best to be friendly.'

'So did I.'

'I hated it when they threatened us with death.'

They all looked accusingly at Maeve.

'It would have been fine if you had not acted in such a hotheaded manner,' said Brannoc, angrily.

Maeve tossed her red hair.

'They threatened us. No one threatens an O'Brien fairy.'

'Well, it was completely unnecessary to threaten him back with tearing his head off. Is that the way you act in Ireland?'

'Yes.'

Brannoc turned away in disgust. The episode had been a disaster. They had succeeded in gathering supplies but, thanks to Maeve's temper, they had alienated a previously unsuspected clan of black fairies.

'They could have been helpful, you know. Now we'll have to avoid them.'

Maeve would not give in. She said she did not care how helpful they could have been, no one threatened an

O'Brien fairy and got away with it. She drank some whisky and told Brannoc he could go back and make peace if he wanted.

'Though I hope you make a better job of it than the English have done in Ireland so far.'

She donned her uillen pipes and started up a jaunty jig to demonstrate her lack of concern. Padraig joined in on his tin whistle, but the tune he introduced was 'Banish Misfortune'. Although he would not speak against Maeve, he felt that she had not handled things very well. After all, the black fairies did have reason to object. Maeve and he would not have been very pleased had they found one of their local bars in Galway being raided by a bunch of

strangers.

'Banish Misfortune' is a very lucky jig. Generations of Celts have played it with optimism, which has given it a magical power to make things go well. Since ending up in New York, Padraig had found himself playing it more

and more.

The barman in Harlem noticed how empty the whisky bottles had become.

'We sure sold a lot of Scotch this week,' he told the construction workers. 'Maybe trade's on the increase after all.'

This seemed like heartening news and the workers were cheered. In the pleasant afterglow of the fairies' presence, they felt that better times were bound to come soon.

Dinnie, I have been reading the magazines that were lying in the gutter outside.'

'So?'

'Focus your mind carefully on our bargain.'

'Why?'

'Because it's time for you to lose weight.'

Dinnie gave a yelp. The last thing Dinnie wanted to do was lose weight. Heather knew that this was going to be an awkward beginning to her plan to transform Dinnie, but she was insistent.

'A recent survey in
Cosmopolitan
gave excess weight as the number one turn-off for American women. Kerry is an American woman. It therefore follows that to win her heart you have to lose weight. To put it another way, she is not going to fall for a fat lump like you. So you're going on a diet.'

Dinnie spluttered.

'You said you'd make her fall in love with me. You never said anything about making me suffer.'

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'I said if you did exactly as I said I'd make her fall for you. And I say you have to lose weight.'

Dinnie immediately refused, but Heather countered by informing him that this would be breaking their bargain and she would now shrink the fiddle to fairy size and remove it.

Dinnie was cornered. He clutched his packet of cookies, panic stricken. He could feel himself going faint as the awful prospect of dieting loomed in front of him.

Heather, not averse to putting one over on Dinnie, smirked maliciously.

'But do not despair, my fat friend. The magazine promised that it is easy to fill yourself up with nourishing and appetising meals and still lose weight. I have memorised the recipes and you are starting today.'

Wails of passion from a rehearsal came up through the floorboards, as Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia and Helena

struggled there way through their difficult romance. Dinnie screamed abuse at the performers.

'Now, now,' Heather chided him. 'Remember that you are also becoming a pleasant and civilised human being.

Pleasant and civilised human beings do not scream out to strangers that they are guilty of having sex with their mothers.

'Today's recipe will be nuts and tomatoes. Also Chinese cabbage leaves, because you need green vegetables. You take a walk to the health food shop on First Avenue for the nuts and buy some tomatoes from the corner shop.

Tomatoes are these round red things. I will find the Chinese cabbage leaves because I could do with a little fresh air. While you are at it, keep a look out for a triple-bloomed Welsh poppy. I have learned that it is most important to Kerry.'

Heather hopped on to the window-sill.

'If you get back before me, practise the new jig I showed you, "The Atholl Highlanders". It is an extremely fine jig and it is in your book if you can't remember it. Take care not to confuse it with "The Atholl Volunteers", "The Atholl Volunteers' March", "Atholl Brose" or "The Braes of Atholl". A popular place for songs, Atholl. Cheerio.'

The ransom note from the Chinese fairies was a terrible blow to Kerry and Morag.

'GIVE US BACK THE MIRROR OR YOU'LL NEVER SEE YOUR WELSH POPPY AGAIN.'

Kerry gazed at it. It seemed to imply magic forces beyond belief.

'How did they get hold of my Welsh poppy? How did they know where it was? How did they know it was

important? And how did they know I had stolen the mirror?'

Morag made a small loop in the air before settling on Kerry's shoulder.

'Fairies can know lots of things by intuition,' she explained. 'I expect that after they chased me following the regrettable lobster incident, they sensed that I'd been in the shop where the mirror had been. Probably they've been looking for me ever since and when they spotted me they took the first opportunity to burgle your apartment.

'You were wearing your waistcoat today so they couldn't find the mirror, but they took something else. They

might have known the Welsh poppy was important to you due to cunning psychic insights. There again, it might

have been because you wrote a sign in red ink above it saying "This is my most prized possession." '

Morag volunteered to make the exchange.

'I am sure it will not be too risky. We fairies are reasonable creatures and I will simply explain the whole thing away as a misunderstanding. If that doesn't work, I'll claim you are a kleptomaniac currently undergoing

treatment.'

'That was the most unpleasant customer I've ever encountered,' said an assistant in the health food shop to her fellow worker. 'You'd think I was twisting his arm to buy a bag of mixed nuts.'

'What was it he accused you of?'

'I don't know. It was something about collaborating with fairies to poison the city.'

'What a weirdo. Did you notice his coat?'

They shuddered.

Dinnie tramped home. The slight satisfaction of having subjected the sales assistants to some good solid abuse had not made him any happier about the day's events.

He flung the nuts on a shelf and settled down for his afternoon nap.

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Morag hovered over Canal Street, slightly uncomfortable at the prospect of facing an entire Chinese fairy clan, but confident that things would work out well enough and she would be able to return with Kerry's dried flower. It was desperately important to Morag that Kerry won the Community Arts Prize because this would make her immensely

happy, and Morag had read in a medical directory in a bookshop on Second Avenue that being happy was very

important to Crohn's disease sufferers. An unhappy Kerry was likely to be a sick Kerry, and a sick Kerry was

likely to get more of her insides removed by a surgeon.

Heather, meanwhile, was travelling the short distance to Chinatown to find some Chinese cabbage leaves.

'This is extremely good of me,' she thought, idly combing her long hair as a delivery truck took her down

Broadway to Canal Street. 'I could get him any old cabbage leaves. He'd never know the difference. But the recipe said Chinese, and I am willing to expend effort for a fellow MacKintosh.'

She looked up into the dazzling blue sky, and started in surprise. Up above was Morag, surrounded by strange

yellow fairies. Heather was not particularly psychic as fairies go, but she easily sensed the hostility of the strangers towards Morag. As she watched, they seemed to be in the process of robbing her of a shining brooch.

Unsheathing her sword and her skian dhu, she flew up into the air.

'Unhand my friend,' she screamed, plunging into the floating host, slashing wildly.

Dinnie slumbered peacefully, undisturbed by the four Puerto Rican footballers on the street below kicking around their tennis ball.

'Raise the clans!' screamed Heather, to Dinnie's immense distress, as she thundered in the window, Morag in tow.

'We're being invaded by a host of yellow fairies!'

'What?'

'Get your sword out. They're attacking over the hills!'

'Will you stop shouting.'

'Barricade the doors!' screamed Heather. 'Sound the warpipes ! '

'Will you shut up, you imbecile!' demanded Dinnie. 'What's the idea of bursting in here shouting and screaming.

You know I need my afternoon sleep.'

'Never mind your sleep. There's yellow fairies with strange weapons massing on the borders.'

'Oh, for God's sake, you're not in the Highlands now.'

'I had to fight my way out of Canal Street. Only a master swordswoman like myself could have done it. Then we escaped on a police car but they'll be after us. Come on, Morag.' She turned to her friend. 'Get your sword out.'

Heather's mood changed to one of open defiance. She leapt on to the window-sill and began marching up and

down.

'Wha daur meddle wi me!' she yelled out the window. 'Touch not the cat bot a glove!'

This was the motto of the MacKintosh clan, and obscure even by Scottish standards.

She leaned out to check for the enemy. None were in sight.

'Well,' she said. 'It seems like I shook them off. Hah! It takes more than a few odd-coloured fairies to capture one of the fighting MacKintoshes.'

She brandished her sword one last time at the world in general, then hopped back inside.

'Well, Morag, we may have our differences, but never let it be said I was not willing to intervene in a crisis.'

Morag, seemingly dazed by recent events, shook her head.

'Heather,' she said. 'You are a profound idiot.'

Magenta marched on, grinning with satisfaction. The Gods were obviously with her. And she had every right to

expect that they would be, for she was assiduously consulting Zeus, Apollo and Athena at every opportunity, and she always followed their advice.

Only yesterday she had lost the poppy to the young hippy girl. Shaken by this defeat, Magenta had sat down to consult an oracle, the insides of a dead pigeon. A commotion in the sky made her look up, and there was a battle between various Persian winged demons.