"Which pocket?" asked Yolanda. "Not your butt pocket, get it?"
"Got it," said Ceese.
"Good," said Mack. Then he broke up laughing, for reasons Ceese didn't bother to inquire about.
"You got your stuff? For the pillars?" Ceese asked Mack.
Mack patted his own pockets.
"And a knife?"
Mack shook his head. "In my dream I didn't have a knife."
"In your dream you were fighting a slug with wings, too, not the king of the fairies."
"Um," said Yolanda.
"What?"
"That's the form we imprisoned him in," she said. "It's one of the shapes he can wear, and it's the only one where he doesn't have really dextrous hands."
"Didn't want him to have hands. So what does he have?"
"Talons like a steam shovel," said Yolanda. "But we weren't thinking about fighting him in the flesh, when we did that."
"And wings," said Puck. "With little tiny fingers on them, like a bat. They can rip your cheek right off your face in combat. You couldn't tie your shoelaces with them, though."
"Wish it were the other way," said Ceese. "These other animals—what are they going to do to me?"
"Nothing much, the size you turn into in there."
"What about me?" asked Mack.
"They won't touch you, Mack. Have they ever?"
"Panther growled at me once."
"Boo hoo," said Puck.
"So all that time I kept a watch out for predators and scavengers and heat-seeking reptiles in the night, I had nothing to worry about?"
"They obey Oberon, and to their tiny little minds you are Oberon."
"You do smell like him," Yolanda added.
"That's good news," said Mack. "So what are we waiting for?"
"Courage," said Ceese.
"A heart," said Mack.
"A brain," said Puck, pointedly looking at Ceese. And when Mack laughed, this time Ceese got the reference.
Everybody went to the bathroom who needed to, which meant Ceese and Mack. Then they were ready to go.
When they got out on the back porch, not a thing was changed—not even blown by the wind.
But when they walked back onto the brick walkway, the forest was bedecked in the reds and golds of autumn.
"Toto, I think we're not in Southern California anymore," said Mack.
"Stop," said Yolanda.
Ceese looked at her. She was half the height she was before. And he was several feet taller, because he was looking down at Mack almost like Mack was a kid again. Yet he hadn't felt himself grow.
"They can smell us already," Yolanda said. "They're gathering. Have those film cans ready?
Mack, you hold mine and be ready to put me in. Please don't let any birds snatch it out of your fingers, all right? Or me, for that matter."
Mack looked up. So did Ceese. There were several birds hovering overhead. No, more than several—most of them were so high up they were hard to spot.
"This ain't going to be fun," said Puck. "In case you thought."
"Especially watch your eyes, Cecil Tucker," said Yolanda. "They like to go for the eyes. When they're fighting giants."
"I don't know the way," said Ceese. "I got to be able to see."
"Easy for you to say," said Ceese. "You're immortal."
"But I've been blind."
This wasn't the time for a story. They took another step. Still way too big to fit into a baby stroller, let alone a film canister.
"Hold my hand, baby," said Yolanda. "I don't want you to lose me."
"Hold my hand, too," said Puck.
"I'll just hold you," said Ceese, picking him up and tucking him like a football.
Another step. Another. Another.
Birds were swooping now, flitting by, close over their heads. And all around them, squirrels and other animals were coming to the edges of the path and chattering at them.
The next step would take them off the brick. But the fairies now fit into the palms of their hands.
Another couple of steps and they'd be film size.
They took the steps. Ceese's fingers were so big he could hardly get the lid off. And now the birds were snatching and pecking at him. Landing on his shoulders. They were small but their pecks were sharp and hard. They hurt like horsefly bites.
"I can't do this," said Ceese.
Mack looked up at him. He had the lid off his film canister, and Yolanda was crawling into it.
At that moment, a bird swooped and snatched the lid to Mack's film canister right off his palm.
"Shit!" shouted Mack.
Without even thinking, Ceese swatted the bird that had stolen the lid and knocked it to the forest floor.
Mack dove for it, found it, and put it on the canister. Then he put the canister inside his front jeans pocket. Then he reached for Ceese's film canister and got it open. All the while, Puck was yelling something, but his voice was so little and high that Ceese could hardly hear him. No wonder Puck had had to crawl closer to the house and get larger before Mack could hear him, that time when he got so badly injured.
Mack handed Ceese the canister and Puck leapt in. Again, Mack had to fasten the lid because Ceese's fingers were simply too big. Like an elephant trying to pick up a dime.
"I hate being this big," said Ceese.
"Then let's get under the trees."
It was such a good idea. Except for the part about Ceese being so tall that he wasn't under anything. He had to breast his way through the trees like he was trying to force his way against a river current. And he couldn't see the path at all.
Mack was yelling at him. Ceese bent over, pushing branches out of the way as he did.
"You're off the path!" Mack yelled.
"I can't see the path," said Ceese. "But I can see the sky."
"Great, I need a weather report, I'll give you a call. Look, Ceese, there's no way to do this unless you get down to my level. Stay under the trees."
"I'm supposed to crawl the whole way?"
Mack shrugged. "I can't help it."
Ceese saw that there was no choice. But it hurt his knees. The tree trunks were also close together, so that Ceese was constantly banging his shoulders. Not to mention breaking low-hanging branches with his head.
"I'm going to have such a headache," said Ceese.
He noticed that, along with the birds nipping at his ears and the back of his neck, there were squirrels and other creatures running over his hands and up his sleeves. "What do they think they are, ants?"
"Commandos," said Mack. "Think: fire ants."
"Squirrels aren't poisonous."
"They've got teeth and jaws so strong they can crack nuts."
"Aw no," said Ceese. "Please tell me that bastard won't make them go for my package."
"Must be a huge target," said Mack helpfully. "Easy to find."
Sure enough, just like fire ants, they went straight for his scrotum. Ceese pulled at the crotch of his pants and tried to pinch the creatures without mashing his own testicles.
"Ceese," said Mack, "if you stop every time some creature bites you, we'll never get there."
"I don't notice them biting you."
"They won't fit up my sleeve or into my pants," said Mack.
"That, too," said Mack.
It was slow going—crawling, bumping into trees, scraping through branches, brushing away birds, plucking at squirrels. Ceese was bleeding from hundreds of pecks and bites and he was desperate to fling his clothes off and put Neosporin—or anything, rubbing alcohol—on the sores inside his clothes. "I always hated squirrels," said Ceese. "Now I know why."
"You think they like hanging around in your crotch?"
"Why not?" said Ceese. "Nobody's biting them."