The Children's Crusade (2 page)

I wish I could tell Molly all of what's going on. But how can I? I can't exactly say “Sorry, Moll, but I've been kind of busy being attacked by weird and not always human strangers and finding out my dad's not my dad but actually this bird guy, and, oh yes, there was that little bit there where I nearly died but saved all of Faerie.

Still, she's the one I usually tell everything to—everything I can, that is. The other stuff, well, that's between me and you. Oh man! Now I'm talking to a bloody journal!

Anyway.

She was really great when I went to her with that big news—the dad-not-being-my-dad part. Only what I haven't told her about is the magic. And that's the biggest whammy of them all. So while she knows that my mother was pregnant when she married Dad—I mean, Mr. Hunter—she doesn't know that my real father was a guy who could turn into a bird. Or that I've been back and forth between worlds, visiting the land of Faerie, where my real father lives.

 

Tim looked down at his journal and bit the end of his pencil. He scratched out the last word he'd written and replaced it with “lived.”

He sat back hard against his desk chair and shut his eyes behind his glasses. “It's not fair,” he murmured. “In fact, it bloody well rots.”

Tim hadn't simply
visited
Faerie that last time—he had actually saved the entire alternate world from the grip of the evil creature known as the manticore. It was in performing that little act of heroism that he'd gotten himself killed,
although thanks to some magic bargaining, it was Tamlin who wound up permanently dead.

Tamlin, the Queen's Falconer, who also happened to be Tim's real father, had sacrificed his life so Tim could live, performing a spell that allowed him to trade places with Tim, who was near death. It meant Tim would never get any answers to the enormous questions that pounded in his brain. It made everything so confusing.

But Tim was also intensely grateful. He knew he would be dead right now if it hadn't been for what Tamlin had done.

How am I ever going to sort things out?
Tim wondered.
Like, how did he ever meet my mum?

It was awfully difficult for Tim to picture his mother and Tamlin together. Tim didn't imagine that they'd met at some sort of singles gathering, like groups had at the community center. Not likely that there would have been a special “humans and birds” night. That brought up another question: Did his mum even know that she had gotten herself pregnant by a guy who spent part of his time as a hawk and lived full-time in Faerie?

There were no answers. Only more questions. And the fact that Tim had recently discovered that he had the potential to become the most powerful magician of his time didn't help. After that, all bloody hell had broken loose: He'd been attacked,
admired, confused, and amazed in an extremely compressed amount of time.

If Tamlin were still here, he could help me understand my magic
, Tim thought wistfully.
That's kind of what a dad does, isn't it? Helps you figure out who you are and how to be in the world.

Tim snorted
. Not that I would know what a dad does.
He cocked his head, listening. Yup, the telly was still blaring downstairs. That was how the bloke he previously believed was his father—Mr. Hunter—spent most of his time, since the car accident that had killed Tim's mum and taken one of his father's arms.

“Magic.” Tim stood up and paced his small room. If only he understood his powers better. Or understood what it really meant to have all this potential.
And while I'm making wishes
, Tim thought,
it would be really great if the whole world wasn't out to get me
. It wasn't just the magical world that was fraught with danger and enemies—his teachers seemed to be on his case constantly these days, too.

He shut his journal and pulled his algebra test from his backpack. “Maybe I have been a little distracted,” he muttered, glaring at the bright red C–at the top of the page. “But who could blame me?” He didn't think a single other bloke in school was dealing with quite as much as
he was. Maybe he
should
spill it all to Molly. He could use an ally.

Okay. Maybe he'd risk it—surely she'd understand. He grabbed a jacket and bounded down the stairs. Knowing he was going to finally have someone to talk to about this whole magic thing gave him energy to spare. So what if he didn't have any idea what words to use to convince Molly he wasn't completely mad. Whatever he said, he knew Molly would listen. And if she decided he was a loon after all, well, then, she wasn't the kind of friend he thought she was in the first place.

“I'm going out, Dad,” Tim called as he passed the dark living room.

His dad gazed at the flickering light on the TV screen. “You're missing a good one, Tim,” his dad said without looking up. “Come watch this girl dance.”

Mr. Hunter liked those big movie musicals from the old days—the ones filled with pretty girls kicking their legs in unison or tap-dancing on pianos or some such.

“No thanks, Dad,” Tim said.

Mr. Hunter finally glanced up and gave Tim a small smile. Not too long ago, he had confirmed Tim's suspicions, admitting that Tim's mother had already been pregnant by another man when she
and Mr. Hunter had married. Since then, Mr. Hunter had been a lot more tentative around Tim. Gentle, almost. He was certainly paying more attention. Tim hadn't decided yet if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“Good for you, then,” Mr. Hunter said. “Good to see you out and about.”

“That's me, social butterfly,” Tim said. “See you.”

He left the house and headed for Molly's, sprinting all the way. He rang the doorbell and bounced a little on his toes. He felt nervous about what he was about to do. It wasn't as if the Trenchcoat Brigade—the four blokes who had introduced him to magic in the first place—had told him it was a super secret or anything. But he knew it wasn't the kind of thing a chap ought to spread around.

Molly can keep a secret
, he reminded himself.
All I have to do is convince her that it's true. That this whole magic thing isn't a psycho reaction to finding out I'm not my dad's son.

Molly opened the door with her coat on. “Hey, Tim. Want to go to the library?”

“The library?” Tim repeated. “On a Saturday?”

A tall, chubby girl stood behind Molly. She was also wearing a coat. “I'm Becca, Molly's
cousin. I'm driving her to the big library downtown.”

“Oh.” Tim shifted from foot to foot on the doorstep. This wasn't what he'd planned at all.

“I'm going to go find those keys, then we'll head out,” Becca told Molly. She disappeared back into the kitchen.

“So do you want to come?” Molly asked.

“Nah,” Tim said. “Why are you going to the downtown library? There's one right close by.”

“The little one here is so ratty,” Molly complained. “All the books have stains and the pages are falling out. And the books I wanted were already checked out at school.”

“What are you working on?” Tim asked, wondering if there was some school assignment he had totally spaced on.

“My paper for history,” she replied. “We're studying the Industrial Revolution. I'm going to write about child labor laws.”

Tim nodded, grateful that he was in a different history section from Molly and hadn't been assigned a paper yet.

“Hey, what's your theory about the missing kids?” Molly asked.

“The what?” Tim asked. “What missing kids?”

Molly's brown eyes grew wide. “How could
you have missed it? Everyone at school was talking about it.” Then her expression grew concerned. “I suppose you've had a lot on your mind.” Molly knew that Tim was still reeling from having discovered who his father was.

“Kind of,” Tim admitted.

“Still, I'm surprised you haven't heard it on the telly or the radio.”

“Dad doesn't like the news. He prefers his old movies. All black-and-white for him.” Tim sighed. That summed up his dad, all right. Mr. Hunter lived in a black-and-white world. Tim had the feeling that Tamlin, his real father, had been fully technicolor.

“Well, some kids vanished from a town not too far from here,” Molly explained, “all at once. No one knows what to make of it.”

“Sounds weird.”

Molly nodded. “It's like one of those unsolved mysteries on TV.”

The door opened. “Come on, let's go,” Becca said. “You coming?” she asked Tim.

Tim shook his head. He didn't feel like tagging along with Molly just to go to a library where they'd have to be quiet. And Molly would want to study. For some reason she liked school.

What a letdown. Tim felt like a balloon losing its air. He had geared himself up to share this
huge secret with Molly, got himself brave enough to do it, had charged over here, and now…nothing. He'd have to either give up on telling her or go through the whole process of revving himself up all over again.

Molly must have noticed his expression. “Don't look so glum,” she scolded with a teasing smile. “Things could be worse. You could be living back when you'd have to work in some factory like these kids I'm writing about. They'd work eleven-, twelve-hour days and be grateful for a crust of bread and a few pennies.”

“Come on, if we're going,” Becca barked at Molly. “I've got work to do myself.”

“See you later, Tim,” Molly said.

“Okay.”

Tim watched them climb into Becca's beat-up old car, uncertain of what to do. Should he go back home again? He didn't feel like being cooped up. Preparing himself to tell Molly about being magic had pumped up his adrenaline, and now he had all this excess energy to get rid of. Maybe he should go home and grab his skateboard.
Yeah, that would be good
. The air was dry for a change, no snow in sight. Good boarding weather.

He thought about what Molly had said—about being glad to be living today rather than in the past. But he kind of wished he
did
live in the
past.
Oh, not
too
long ago, not in the days of gas lighting and horse-drawn carriages or anything
. But in the time before he stepped into magic and his whole world changed. Could it only have been a few weeks ago?

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned to go home. He had taken only a few steps when something made him stop short on the pavement. The air shimmered in front of him.

Titania, Queen of Faerie, materialized before him. And she didn't look happy.

A
BOY WITH GRIMY LONG BLOND HAIR
stood beside a crowd of kids. The group stared down at a pink chalk hopscotch grid the boy had drawn on the sidewalk. A little girl, about seven, squinted up at him.

“Does everyone play dress up where you're from?” she asked.

The boy, Daniel, glanced down at his tattered overcoat, patched trousers, and the beat-up top hat he held in his hand. The overcoat with tails had seen better days. It had begun to deteriorate even before he had gone to Free Country. No surprise, seeing as he had found them in the rubbish heap. The trousers had once belonged to one of the sons of his master in the factory. Hand-me-down hand-me-downs they were.

Daniel looked at the neat and tidy children surrounding him and felt a bit disheveled. Usually, he didn't mind how he looked. Everyone in Free Country looked however they wanted to. Well, truth be told, he always made sure his face was clean and nothing was too dirty if he knew he'd be seeing Marya. He was sweet on her, and he didn't care who knew it.

“Where I come from,” he told the little girl, “you can dress up as a fairy princess if you want to. Or a frog, even.”

The girl giggled. “I wouldn't want to be a frog.”

“Well, then, don't, for all I care.” Daniel was growing impatient. A dozen children had already hopped the pattern. This batch had slowed things down by asking questions.

“Come on,” he instructed them. “Hook it. If you can't hop any faster than this, we'll catch it for sure!”

He watched with satisfaction as the children picked up speed—excited, no doubt, by the possibility of being princesses and frogs. After the last child hopped, skipped, and jumped, Daniel started to follow but paused, teetering on one foot.

“Slag me,” he scolded himself. “I forgot! I promised Marya I'd snag her a souvenir.”

He placed his bare foot back on the ground
and glanced into the window of the shop behind him. Daniel couldn't read, so he wasn't sure what kind of shop it was. But there was a little statue in the window of a ballerina.

“Coo,” he breathed, admiring the statue. “Ain't you the cat's canary.” It was just the thing for Marya. He picked up a stone from the gutter and hurled it at the window. Taking care not to cut himself, he reached in and snatched the statue. He shoved it under his coat and hopped his way back home into Free Country.

A moment later, Daniel stood on a cobblestone path in Free Country, surrounded on all sides by trees, flowers, and rolling lawns. The sun warmed the stones so they felt cozy under his bare feet. The sky was the same brilliant blue it always was, and a hint of the smell of chocolate cookies was in the breeze. Daniel took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the delicious air. “Free Country,” he murmured, “and about time, too. Another day of that drudge and I'd have been Bedlam bait.”

How long was I out there on my mission?
he wondered. It was probably only about three days, but it had felt like years. That's how passing time felt to Daniel anyplace but in Free Country. When he was anywhere else he felt all nervous.

His charges—the children he had just
instructed in the special hopscotch pattern—stood gazing about them.
They all look a bit daft when they come through
, he observed.
Well, no mind. They'll get themselves sorted soon enough. And meantime, I've got a present to give!
He patted the ballerina statue under his coat. He couldn't wait to see Marya's face when he gave it to her.

He pushed his way through the crowd of confused children. “Coming through, coming through,” he bleated. He charged up the hill, where some of the children Daniel had sent through earlier were gathered around Kerwyn.

Kerwyn was tall and skinny, and whenever he spoke to the newcomers, he made his voice deeper and lower than it really was. Why he'd want to sound like an old 'un was something Daniel didn't understand.
Isn't that why we're all here? To get away from the grown-ups?

Daniel thought Kerwyn would sound more commanding if he didn't use all those
ahems
,
ers
, and
uhms
, when he spoke.
Blimey, Kerwyn's given the same speech a million times, so why does he still sound like he's trying to guess at what he wants to say?

Okay, maybe a million is an exaggeration,
Daniel conceded
.
Daniel wasn't really sure how long Kerwyn had been here. He knew it was a lot longer than him. Or Marya. Maybe longer than everyone. That was one of the reasons Kerwyn
was head boy. That, and the fact that at fourteen years old, he was the oldest among them. And always had been. And always would be.

“Ahem,” Kerwyn cleared his throat. “I am sure you all, ahem, have questions about…uh…er…things.”

Daniel tried not to laugh. Not a single child was paying the least bit of attention to Kerwyn. Maybe the kiddies should have had some questions, but they were having too much fun, discovering the amazing pleasures of Free Country. Boys and girls were rolling down the soft sweet grassy hills. Others chased brightly colored butterflies, who obliged by landing on their noses, tickling them between their astonished eyes. One group was plucking the candy lollipops that sometimes sprang right out of the ground.

“If I could have your attention, please?” Kerwyn asked. Now his voice was back to his ordinary pitch, which was sort of whiney.

“Kerwyn,” Daniel said.

Kerwyn looked annoyed. “I didn't mean you, Daniel. I meant the new ones.”

“Where's Marya?” Daniel asked.

Kerwyn crossed his arms over his chest. He wore a white shirt, with poofy sleeves that dangled a little along his wrists. Marya called it a “poet's shirt.” But as far as Daniel knew, Kerwyn never
made up any of that kind of soppy poetry stuff. Kerwyn much preferred spending his time making speeches and playing word games.

“Really,” Kerwyn said, rolling his dark eyes. “That is a stupid question. How should I know where Marya is?”

Daniel glared at Kerwyn, feeling anger rising. Did Kerwyn not want him to see Marya? He glared at the taller boy and advanced a step.

Kerwyn took a tiny step backward. “Out mooning with the Shimmers, I suppose.” Kerwyn threw up his hands. “Isn't she always?”

Of course! Whenever Daniel didn't know Marya's whereabouts, he could always find her with the Shimmers.

“Thanks, mate!” Daniel called over his shoulder as he dashed away.

He charged down to the clear and cold river, which was full of rainbow fish leaping out of the water to greet him. “No time to play now,” he told a speckled bass.

He hopped onto his lovely, handmade raft. Daniel was quite pleased with his accomplishment, and that made him protective of it. He never let anyone but Marya ride on his raft. Before he came to Free Country, Daniel had never owned anything that was
only
his. Working in the filthy, noisy, stifling factory, anything he'd made had belonged to
his master, Slaggingham. Everything there, by rights, was his master's: Daniel's time, even his life, it sometimes felt. But this raft, this was
his
.

Grabbing the tree branch that he used as a pole, he guided the raft downriver. To Marya.

Gliding downstream, he grinned, knowing he'd soon be seeing her. He knew exactly where to find the Shimmers. They danced in a little pool overhung with willow trees, just where the sun usually set.

The Shimmers are pretty
, Daniel supposed. But he didn't really understand why Marya spent so much time with them. They were hardly even real.
You can practically see through them
.
Marya is far prettier than any of that lot
. But girls like shiny little things, and the Shimmers were certainly that.

He finally spotted her in the distance, sitting on an overturned rowboat. She was a little slip of a thing, really, and just about his age—thirteen—with beautiful long red hair that curled and danced in the breeze. Her skin was pale white, like those dolls that have glass heads, and her eyes were the most sparkly green. Greener even than the greenest grass of Free Country—and that was the greenest Daniel had ever seen. There hadn't been too much green in Daniel's world. In fact, where Daniel had come from, there was very
little that wasn't covered with soot and grime.

Marya was so clean. He liked that, too.

Daniel ducked his hand into the river and gave his face a scrub. He ran his wet hand through his blond hair, hoping it wasn't too much of a mess. Kerwyn did sometimes scold him for being so untidy. Usually Daniel felt like clocking Kerwyn for that. But sometimes he thought perhaps Kerwyn was just trying to help him along a bit. To fit in, like. Make a good impression.

Daniel poled up into the tall grasses of the riverbank. Without his asking, the grass parted for him, so that he could maneuver the raft into place. The long green fronds knew he was in a hurry. Free Country was like that sometimes. You just wanted something and before you'd really realized that you'd made a wish, Free Country gave it to you. It didn't always happen that way, though. Daniel wished and wished for Marya to kiss him and she never did. Not even once. He was still puzzling over why Free Country gave him some things but not what he wanted most.

He leaped onto the bank and hurried toward Marya.

“Marya,” he called. “I'm back!” He wondered if she had missed him. Maybe he'd impress her with how many of the little kiddies he had brought back.

“I've done it!” he boasted as he made his way to her through the long grass. “We reeled in the lot of 'em.”

He clambered onto the overturned boat that Marya sat on and sprawled beside her. “You ought to see the world they's from,” he told her. “They got these boxes they string to their ears that makes music and games like you never seen.”

Marya nodded a little, and she gave a small smile so Daniel knew she had noticed he was there. That was a start, at least.

“There'll be more of 'em scarping over any time now,” he continued. “Kerwyn'll be picking missionaries for the last crossing soon as he gets the new ones tucked away.”

“That's good,” Marya murmured.

Daniel laughed. “You don't give a fig, do you? Not really.”

Now Marya gave a real smile, even though she still didn't look at him. “No,” she answered. “I don't.”

Daniel tore his eyes away from Marya's pretty face and followed her gaze. The Shimmers were putting on a splendid show.

He wasn't sure exactly what they were. They looked like little cherubs, only they weren't chubby. They were silvery and pink and glowing, and the air around wherever they were glowed,
too. They didn't touch the ground but floated above the river, dancing. They were always dancing. Daniel had to admit they were very impressive—all fluttery and floaty like that. Marya always said they were the most delicate, graceful dancers she'd ever seen. Daniel had never seen any other dancers so he took her word for it.

He stood up and dug his bare toes into the soft wet riverbank. “I don't care about that stuff, neither,” he told Marya. “It was fun, being picked for the mission and all, but after that…”

He glanced over his shoulder. He was going to tell Marya something he had never said out loud to anyone. “It weren't so bad over there, you know. Not so bad as Kerwyn says. The air weren't that bad. It was a sight better than where I came from. The water, too.” He thrust out his bottom lip as he thought about things. “And only a few of the little 'uns looked like they was getting the stick at all regular.” He shook his head. “That Kerwyn. He's such a jerk.”

Marya didn't respond—not even to this bold statement. She just stared at the Shimmers. He'd never get her attention with them about. He would have tried running them off, but this was their spot. He figured they'd never go.

He sighed and flopped back down onto the rowboat. Maybe if he tried harder to care about
the Shimmers, he'd be able to spend more time with Marya. He sat silently beside her, watching the fancy creatures dance their fancy patterns. They were kind of mesmerizing. Still, Marya outshone even their glowing presence.

“You ever try dancing with 'em?” he asked.

Marya finally gazed straight at Daniel. It made his heart feel all gooshy. “Dance with them?” she repeated. “How could I? Look at them.”

He watched them for a few more seconds. Marya could do anything, he was sure of it. Why didn't she see that?

“Oh, just you wait,” he assured her. “You're bound to catch on sooner or later. Besides, they've been here a long time. A real long time.”

Marya's shoulders slumped. “So have I,” she mumbled. “Only I never grow up. I just stay the same.”

“Who'd want to grow up?” Daniel said. “Not me!”

Marya stared down at her feet. Her long hair covered her face, but Daniel could tell that she'd gone all quiet inside again.

Now you've gone and done it
, Daniel scolded himself. He forgot that Marya wasn't always happy to be in Free Country. And that she'd probably been trying to dance like the Shimmers as long as
she'd been here. “Snaffle me, Marya. I'm sorry.”
Do something
, he told himself.
Make it better.

He sat back up and felt the weight in his inside coat pocket.
Perfect!
“Never mind that,” he said, pulling out the ballerina statue. “Look, I brought you something.” He handed Marya the dancing girl. She stared down at it, her green eyes wide.

His stomach felt suddenly sick. She was supposed to smile when he gave her the doll. “What's the matter?” he asked. “I thought you'd like it. You're always thinking about the old palace days and learning to be a ballerina and all.”

“I do like it. I do,” Marya told him.