“Really?” said the hippocamp. “They don’t smell dead.”
“With all that vinegar, how would you know?” said Lime.
“I think,” said the hippocamp, “I may still try to eat them. If you’ve had your revenge, you’ll raise no further objections, surely?”
“Go ahead,” said Lime. “If you’re not afraid of all the paralytic venom sloshing in their veins.”
The hippocamp retracted her fangs and stared at Lime, her scales glittering in the moonlight, her harp-strings still and gleaming. Lime stared back, defiant.
At last, the hippocamp gave a short, bitter laugh. “Grandmother was right,” she said. “As the sea is full of fishes, the land is full of fools. I’ve wasted my time here.” She lowered her great head and slipped gracefully into the river, a stream of salt-white and storm-grey.
As she swam oceanward, she called behind to Lime and Erskine. “Beware, my damsel! Beware, little thief! If I ever see a green fairy or a stinking red-headed adventurer on the shores of Crab’s Cairn again, no force on land or sea will stay my wrath!” With that, she plunged beneath the water; the white harp sunk into the depths.
“Is she gone?” asked Erskine.
“Gone enough,” said Lime. “Good job, by the way, almost getting gobbled up by a snake.”
“It was a shed skin,” said Erskine, rising to their feet. “I didn’t think anyone would miss it.” They brushed the dirt from their pajamas. Their eyes widened. “Oh, no! Is that Slugsy?”
A blue light flickered in the shallows. It was indeed Slugsy, laying stunned beneath the water. A few fish-like scales had blossomed on her forehead, and on her neck Lime could see the faint lines of developing gills.
Erskine lifted Slugsy from the riverbed and petted her gently on the back until she coughed up a gout of fluid. “No,” she gasped. “No, no, no! Have I turned into a water sprite?”
“It’s fine,” said Lime. “You’ve still got legs.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a water sprite,” said Erskine.
Slugsy peeled the scales from her forehead and leapt into the air. She glanced from Lime to Erskine and back. “Ah!” she said. “Listen, human. It might look like Loner escaped, but she didn’t. She was ensorcelled by the hippocamp, just like you.”
To Lime, she directed a not-so-subtle wink.
“Honestly,” said Erskine, “that was one of the last things on my mind. Are the two of you okay?”
Lime shrugged. “I guess,” said Slugsy, rubbing at her neck. “How are we not dead, anyway? Where’s the hippocamp?”
“I ran her off,” said Lime.
“She ran her off,” said Erskine.
“No,” said Slugsy. “I mean, really.”
“You got me,” said Lime. “The human tricked her, and she swam away.”
“I didn’t—” Erskine began.
“Enough talking!” said Lime. “Good night, Slugsy. Let’s get going, human.” She wiped the last flecks of mud from her wings and flew into the woods.
“Wait!” said Erskine, jogging after. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my salt-shaker,” said Lime. “I’m your prisoner, remember?”
“But you saved my life,” said Erskine.
Lime fluttered to a halt and hovered in place. “What of it?”
“According to the Law, I’m in your debt,” said Erskine, catching up. “You can ask me for anything. So aren’t you going to ask to go free?”
For reasons she didn’t fully understand, Lime hesitated. She hadn’t thought of it that way, but it was true: she had saved Erskine’s life. All she had to do was say “yes,” and she could leave the Woeful Woods forever. She could return to the Library and read and be alone, without anyone to bother her, or bully her, or talk to her ever again.
She felt an inexplicable ache in her heart. She had lived and read in the Library for twenty-five years in perfect contentment, so why, now, did the thought of going back there fill her with such a strange sense of unease?
Then she realized. It was the books, of course. She thought back to all of the books in Erskine’s room. They were human novels, mostly: books the Library—with its outdated selection of non-fairy literature—hadn’t carried, books she might never see again. To leave them behind unread would be tragic, unthinkable. She couldn’t possibly abandon them. Her mind raced.
“I might have saved your life,” said Lime, “but you saved mine, too. So that evens out to nothing.”
“Still,” said Erskine.
“Hush!” said Lime, flitting away. “It’s the middle of the night. Go home, and take a shower.”
“I was going to,” said Erskine. “And hey: wait up!” Lime didn’t pay them any mind. She zipped through the shadows and through the trees, into the garden of the lone little house, ducking beneath the boughs of crepe myrtles, skimming the dewy leaves of roses. She darted through the open door and alighted on the sofa, snuggling onto a coarse green cushion. She took out her book, and breathed a sigh of relief.
When Erskine returned, Lime glared at them, daring them to mention the empty salt-shaker.
“It’s fine if you want to use the sofa,” said Erskine. “Did you want a blanket, too? It feels a bit drafty.”
Lime gave an irritable twitch of her antennae.
“Except a blanket’s probably too big for you, isn’t it?” said Erskine. “Maybe something like a hand-towel would be better? Or a handkerchief?”
“Will you go to bed!” screamed Lime.
“Alright,” said Erskine, shuffling off to the bathroom. “Good night. See you later.” Lime rolled her eyes and returned to her novel.
Somewhere far away, in the brackish depths, a hippocamp swam towards the sea. Pins and needles tingled in her tail. A headache strained at her harp-strings. As she swam, she pieced together the story she would tell her grandmother, upon her return to Crab’s Cairn. She would leave out the green fairy, she decided, among other less-than-flattering details. There were some things not even family needed to know.
In the heart of the Woeful Woods, the blue fairy Slugsy curled in the hollow of a tree, tucked in her little nest of treasures: preserved flowers and spider-silk quilts, engraved egg-shells and foil wrappers pilfered from town. She lay back and rubbed at her neck with a pebble, smoothing away the partly-developed gills.
In the lone house at the edge of the woods, Erskine slept, and a green light shone in the window.
Bubble and Squeak
David Gerrold & Ctein
Hu Son ran.
He ran for the joy of it, for the exhilaration—for that moment of hitting the wall and breaking through into the zone, that personal nirvana of physical delight. What others called “runner’s high.” A sensation like flight—Hu’s feet didn’t pound the ground, they tapped it as he soared through the early morning air.
A bright blue cloudless sky foretold a beautiful day. A sky so clear and deep you could fall into it and never come back. Later, the day would heat up, glowing with a summery yellow haze, but right now—at this special moment—the beachfront basked in its own perfect promise.
Hu usually started early, when Venice Beach was mostly deserted, all sand and palm trees and stone benches, all the storefronts sleeping behind steel shutters. It was the best time to run. Hu liked the crisp air of dawn, the solitude of the moment, the feeling that the day was still clean, still waiting to be invented—before the owners could ruin it with their displays of tacky, tasteless, and vulgar kitsch.
Some of the cafés were open early though, and by the time Hu reached the Santa Monica pier, run its length, and then headed back toward home, the morning air was flavored with the smells of a dozen different kinds of breakfast, the spices of all the various cuisines that flourished here.