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Authors: Laura L. Sullivan
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what looked like a dead mouse.
Meg recoiled and said, âEwwww.â
Bake-Neko took this for a sound of awe and praise, which only goes to show that good things can sometimes come of cultural misunderstandings.
âYou wonât throw it away, will you? Or bury it?â
âUm, no, of course not,â she said, though she intended to do just that.
âI will tell you something, since you freely confess that you are an ignorant savage. Do not dispose of this mouse. We cats, even demon cats of heavenly beauty such as myself, wrap all our presents in dead rodents. Or dead birds, depending on the season. You cannot get to the present inside unless you let the wrapping rot and decompose. Inside will be a treasure beyond value. If you attempt a dissection, it will vanish, and of course if you throw it on the dustheap, someone elseâprobably a burying beetle or stray curâwill make off with your gift.â
âI never knew,â Meg said wonderingly, recalling how many dead lizards and mice and pigeons her own cat back in Arcadia had left for her. Had they all contained presents?
âYou humans are all ignorant barbarians, methinks,â the two-tailed cat said with a twitch of his whiskers. âI return to my home now. Stick that under your bed, and in a few days, you will have your gift.â
Before she could ask him any more questions, he bounded down two steps and had vanished by the third.
She picked up the dead beastie by its short tail (the Wyrm could have told her it was a Japanese red-backed vole, not a mouse, but as it was dead and only a wrapping anyway, it didnât much matter) and carried it up to her bedroom, where she put it in a shoebox and slid it under her bed before searching for Phyllida.
Yes, I Will
F INN RAN SO HE COULDNâT CRY. Feet pounding first on neatly mowed turf, then on the twisting brambles that love the threshold between sun and shade, then on the thick, damp litter of decomposition in the shadowed forest, he pushed himself farther and faster. How could he sob when he needed his breath for running? That must be sweat that stung his eyes so sharply and coursed down his cheeks, not tears. He ran until his side throbbed with a stabbing pain, until a root reached up to trip him and he sprawled headlong in the dirt. His fingers dug into the soft earth, and he pulled up big handfuls, squeezing with all his strength so he wouldnât cry again.
Again. That was the worst of it. Worse than the friendlessness, worse than being scorned, worse than being struck. He could tell himself that the Morgans and Dickie Rhys were beneath him, not his sort, that he didnât want them for friends. He could tell himself, and almost believe, that their scorn came from jealousy, that they teased and shunned him because they recognized and resented his natural superiority. And as for that so-called artist, Gwidion, well, Finn consoled himself that as soon as he got back, heâd call the constable and have him locked up in a dank dungeon (is there any other kind?) for all eternity. But that they should all have seen him weep like a baby, like a girl, like.⦠Fresh tears sprung to his eyes, salty with self-pity.
âItâs not fair,â he said aloud to the dirt, knowing as he did so that he would never, never say that to any living being. Young as he was, he didnât believe in fair play and knew that the world wasnât a fair place. He justified many of the things he did and said by thinking that the world would do and say those same things to him if he didnât armor himself by striking first.
It wasnât fair that all of those beastly Morgans got to see fairies. He had as much right as any of them. So what if the same blood didnât flow through his veins? He was an American and (though he was also a shameless elitist) firmly believed that birth and blood were not nearly as important as determination and cunning and intelligence and an
Meg recoiled and said, âEwwww.â
Bake-Neko took this for a sound of awe and praise, which only goes to show that good things can sometimes come of cultural misunderstandings.
âYou wonât throw it away, will you? Or bury it?â
âUm, no, of course not,â she said, though she intended to do just that.
âI will tell you something, since you freely confess that you are an ignorant savage. Do not dispose of this mouse. We cats, even demon cats of heavenly beauty such as myself, wrap all our presents in dead rodents. Or dead birds, depending on the season. You cannot get to the present inside unless you let the wrapping rot and decompose. Inside will be a treasure beyond value. If you attempt a dissection, it will vanish, and of course if you throw it on the dustheap, someone elseâprobably a burying beetle or stray curâwill make off with your gift.â
âI never knew,â Meg said wonderingly, recalling how many dead lizards and mice and pigeons her own cat back in Arcadia had left for her. Had they all contained presents?
âYou humans are all ignorant barbarians, methinks,â the two-tailed cat said with a twitch of his whiskers. âI return to my home now. Stick that under your bed, and in a few days, you will have your gift.â
Before she could ask him any more questions, he bounded down two steps and had vanished by the third.
She picked up the dead beastie by its short tail (the Wyrm could have told her it was a Japanese red-backed vole, not a mouse, but as it was dead and only a wrapping anyway, it didnât much matter) and carried it up to her bedroom, where she put it in a shoebox and slid it under her bed before searching for Phyllida.
Yes, I Will
F INN RAN SO HE COULDNâT CRY. Feet pounding first on neatly mowed turf, then on the twisting brambles that love the threshold between sun and shade, then on the thick, damp litter of decomposition in the shadowed forest, he pushed himself farther and faster. How could he sob when he needed his breath for running? That must be sweat that stung his eyes so sharply and coursed down his cheeks, not tears. He ran until his side throbbed with a stabbing pain, until a root reached up to trip him and he sprawled headlong in the dirt. His fingers dug into the soft earth, and he pulled up big handfuls, squeezing with all his strength so he wouldnât cry again.
Again. That was the worst of it. Worse than the friendlessness, worse than being scorned, worse than being struck. He could tell himself that the Morgans and Dickie Rhys were beneath him, not his sort, that he didnât want them for friends. He could tell himself, and almost believe, that their scorn came from jealousy, that they teased and shunned him because they recognized and resented his natural superiority. And as for that so-called artist, Gwidion, well, Finn consoled himself that as soon as he got back, heâd call the constable and have him locked up in a dank dungeon (is there any other kind?) for all eternity. But that they should all have seen him weep like a baby, like a girl, like.⦠Fresh tears sprung to his eyes, salty with self-pity.
âItâs not fair,â he said aloud to the dirt, knowing as he did so that he would never, never say that to any living being. Young as he was, he didnât believe in fair play and knew that the world wasnât a fair place. He justified many of the things he did and said by thinking that the world would do and say those same things to him if he didnât armor himself by striking first.
It wasnât fair that all of those beastly Morgans got to see fairies. He had as much right as any of them. So what if the same blood didnât flow through his veins? He was an American and (though he was also a shameless elitist) firmly believed that birth and blood were not nearly as important as determination and cunning and intelligence and an
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