“No,” she said. “I meant faith. Belief. That bird and Little can be one again, the shape they wear being their own choice.”
Meran smiled.
“Done,” she said.
Sheri felt a rumbling underfoot, like a subway car running just under the basement of her apartment building. But there was no subway within blocks of her place. The tea mugs rattled on the table and Jenky gripped the seat of his chair. Something swelled inside her, deep and old, too big for her to hold inside.
And then it was gone.
Sheri blinked and looked at Meran.
Was that it? she wanted to ask. What happened? Did it work?
But before she could speak, there was a blur of motion in the middle of the kitchen table. Jenky leapt up, knocking his little chair down. He lifted his arms and they seemed to shrink back into his body at the same time as his fingers grew long, long, longer. Feathers burst from them in a sudden cloud. His birdish features became a bird’s head in truth, and then the whole of the little man was gone and a gray and brown bird rose up from the tabletop, flapping its wings. It circled once, twice, three times around the room, then landed on the table again, the transformation reversing itself until Jenky was standing there.
He looked up at her, grinning from ear to ear.
Sheri smiled back at him.
“I guess it worked,” she said.
A couple of days later, Sheri looked up from her drawing table, distracted by the tap-tap-tapping on her windowpane. A little gray and brown bird looked in at her, its head cocked to one side.
“Jenky?” she said.
The bird tapped at the glass again so she stepped around her table and opened the window. The bird immediately flew in and landed on the top of her drawing table where it became a little raggedy man. Sheri wasn’t even startled anymore.
“Hello, hello!” Jenky cried.
“Hello, yourself. You’re looking awfully pleased with yourself.”
“Everyone’s so happy. They all wanted to come by and say thank you and hello, but Palko John said that would be indecorous so it’s just me.”
“Well, I’m glad to see you, too.”
Jenky looked like he wanted to dance around where he was standing, but he made himself stand straight and tall.
“I’m supposed to ask you if you’ve decided on your wish,” he said.
“I already told you—I don’t want a wish.”
“But you helped us, and that was our promise to you.”
Sheri shook her head. “I still don’t want it. You should keep it for yourselves.”
“And I already told you. We can’t use it for ourselves.”
Sheri shrugged. “Then find someone who really needs it. A person whose only home is an alleyway. A child fending off unwelcome attention. Someone who’s dying, or hurt, or lonely, or sad. You Littles must go all over the city. Surely you can find someone who needs a wish.”
“That’s your true and final answer?”
“Now you sound like a game show host,” she told him.
He wagged a finger at her. “It’s too late in the day to be cranky. Even you have to have been up for hours now.”
“You still don’t get my jokes, do you?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll learn.”
“Anyway, that’s my true and final answer.”
“Then I’ll find such a person and give them your wish.”
With that he became a bird once more. He did a quick circle around her head, followed by a whole series of complicated loops and swirls that took him from one end of the room to the other, showing off.
“Come back and visit!” Sheri called as he headed for the window.
The bird twittered, then it darted out the window and was gone.
“So what’s the deal with Meran?” Sheri asked Holly the next time she came by the bookstore. “Where do you know her from?”
“I had a … pixie incident that she helped me out with last year.”
“A pixie incident.”
Holly nodded. “The store was overrun with them. They came off the Internet like a virus and were causing havoc up and down the street until she helped us get them back into the Net.”
“Us being you and your hob?”
Just as she had the last time the subject of the hob came up, Holly’s gaze went to an empty chair near the beginning of the store’s furthest aisle, only this time there was a little man sitting there, brown-faced and curly-haired. He gave Sheri a shy smile and lifted a hand in greeting.
“Oh-kay,” Sheri said.
She could have sworn there was no one sitting there a moment ago and his sudden appearance made the whole world feel a little off-kilter. She’d only just gotten used to little men who could turn into birds.
“Sheri, this is Dick Bobbins,” Holly said. “Dick, this is Sheri Piper.”
“I like your books,” the hob said.
His compliment gave Sheri perhaps the oddest feeling that she’d had so far in all of this affair, that a fairy tale being should like her fairy tale books.
“Urn, thank you,” she managed.
“He didn’t appear out of nowhere,” Holly assured her, undoubtedly in response to the look on Sheri’s face. “Hobs have this ability to be so still that we don’t notice them unless they want us to.”
“I knew that.”
Holly grinned. “Sure you did.”
“Okay, I didn’t. But it makes sense in a magical nothing-really-makes-sense sort of a way. Kind of like birds turning into Littles, and vice versa.”
“So was Meran able to help you?”
The hob leaned forward in his chair, obviously as interested as Holly was.
Sheri nodded and told them about how it had gone.
“I understand why you didn’t let Meran’s magic bring you the right guy,” Holly said when she was done. “I mean, after all. You were calling it up for the Littles. What I don’t understand is, why didn’t you use the wish they offered you?”
“Because it’s something for nothing. It’s like putting a love spell on someone. Isn’t it better to get to know someone at a natural pace, work out the pushes and pulls of the relationship to make it stronger, instead of having it all handed to you on a platter?”
“I suppose. But what if you never meet the right guy?”
“That’s the risk I have to take.”
So here I am, still waiting like an idiot on the man of my dreams.
I don’t know which bugs me more: that he hasn’t shown up yet, or that I’m still waiting.
But I got to do a good turn and my picture book is done. Meran loved the paintings I did of her as the forest queen. Her husband even bought one of the originals once I’d gotten the color transparencies made.
What else? I’ve got a new friend who’s a hob and at least once a week Jenky Wood flies up to my windowsill in the shape of a bird, tapping on my windowpane until I let him in. I’ve got my Barbie furniture permanently set up for him on a shelf in my studio, though I have repainted it in more subdued colors.
So what am I saying?
I don’t know. That we all have ups and downs, I guess, whether we bring them on ourselves, or they come courtesy of the Fates. The trick seems to be to roll with them. Learn something from the hard times, appreciate the good.
I didn’t really need fairy encounters to teach me that, but I wouldn’t trade the experience of them for anything. Not even for that elusive, perfect man.
Sign Here
1
“You’ll never guess who came over last night.”
“You’re right. I won’t.” “Come on. You could at least try.”
“Why do you want me to work for this? Just tell me already.” “It was Brenda.” “Bullshit.” “I’m serious.”
“I thought she dumped you.” “No way. I dumped her. Nobody ever dumps me.” “Whatever. So what did she want?” “Cheap sex.”
“Now it really is bullshit.” “I’m kidding. She wants us to get back togethe
r.”
“What did you say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you getting back together? Maybe you dumped her, but you’re always talking about her.”
“She was a great kisser.”
“But?”
“No buts. I just don’t know. I didn’t say yes or no.”
“So what did you do?”
“Nothing. We just talked.”
“About getting back together.”
“No. More about what we’ve been doing, old times, stuff like that. We must’ve been up until almost three.”
“And then you had sex.”
“No. Then she kissed me good night and went home.”
“Still a good kisser?”
“She was always the best. We’re supposed to get together again tonight.”
“So it’s semi-serious.”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“You know what I did last night?”
“Jumped your own bones?”
“Oh, very funny. No, I met this guy in the Crossroads Bar and he showed me this trick. Look at this.”
“How’d you do that?”
“I figure it’s mostly a mental thing.”
“What, like, you only hypnotized me into seeing it?”
“No, the flame’s real. Good trick, isn’t it? Be a great way to pick up a girl in a bar—just light her cigarette with a snap of your fingers.”
“How’d you do it really?”
“It’s this way of, I don’t know. Seeing things differently. Like, you can actually see the molecules of the air and you just kind of convince them to be something other than what they are. Apparently, when you get good at it, you can do it with anything, and not just a tiny flame like this. But air to fire’s supposed to be one of the easier ones so that’s why he started me out with it.”
“And he just showed it to you, out of the blue.”
“Pretty much. He said he’s been looking for someone to teach all this stuff he knows to and I looked like the right kind of guy. He said I was ‘receptive.’ “
“More like gullible.”
“Hey, this is real.”
“Let me—ow!”
“I told you.”
“So what’s he get out of it?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Come on. He’s got to want something.”
“Well, he had me sign this piece of paper …”
“Jesus, what did you sign away?”
“My soul.”
“Get real.”
“That’s all it said. He gets it when I die.”
“This is too weird.”
“Don’t go all Catholic on me. I don’t believe in souls and neither do you. Hell, when was the last time you were in a church?”
“Yeah, but think about it. That was based on limited knowledge.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, souls are kind of like magic, right? And this trick the guy showed you is like magic.”
“So.”
“So if one kind of magic can be real, maybe other kinds can, too. Maybe we do have souls.”
“You think?”
“Well, I’m leaning more to the affirmative right now.”
“I’ve screwed myself, haven’t I?”
“I guess it depends. What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. Kind of normal.”
“No horns—no tail?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re the one he taught to make a flame by snapping your fingers.”
“That’s real.”
“I know it’s real. I saw it.”
“I guess he looked kind of like Elvis, circa the Vegas years, only older.”
“Elvis.”
“Not exactly like him. More like Harvey Keitel sort of playing him in that movie we rented a while ago.”
“Finding Graceland?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“And you just up and traded him your soul to be able to light smokes for women in bars without using matches or a lighter.”
“I don’t own a lighter.”
“I know you don’t. I’m making a point here.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The point is, how stupid can you be?”
“Hey, he’s going to teach me other stuff. I’m going to be his protege.”
“Until you die and he gets your soul.”
“Something like that. If I even have a soul.”
“The more I think about it, the more I’m betting we do. I mean, why else would the guy ask you to sign it over to him? But the difference between you and me is, I still own mine.”
“I am so screwed.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’re smart guys. Maybe we can figure a way out of this. Hell, maybe we can even come out ahead.” “I’d settle on having my soul back.” “It’s not gone yet.” “You know what I mean.” “Let me think on this.”
2
“So did you ask him how to live forever?”
“Yeah. He said, if I can’t figure it out for myself, then I don’t deserve to know. But he showed me another good trick. All I have to do is concentrate, sort of like you do with the air molecules, except this is with molecules of time.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It lets you predict the future.”
“Get out of here.”
“No, really. But it’s a bitch. I can only look ten seconds or so ahead and it gives me a headache that makes a hangover feel good. But it’s like the other thing, he said. The more I practice, the easier it’ll get and the further ahead I can see.”
“So you could predict lotteries and horse races and all kinds of crap.”
“I guess.”
“Did you get a name from this guy?”
“He said I could call him Mr. Parker.”
“Meaning, it’s not really his name. That’s just all he’ll give you.”
“I guess.”
“Well, I’ve figured out the living forever bit.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, he was right. It’s pretty simple, really. Here. Look at these.”
“What are these?”
“Souls.”
“How’d you get them?”
“Well, I figured I’d try buying them. So I went into Your Second Home and kept offering the losers drinking in there five bucks if they’d sign over their soul to me. You’d be surprised at how many people who swear they don’t believe in God will balk at signing over their soul, but I got a few takers.”
“Yeah, well, I wish I’d been smart enough not to sign away mine.”
“Doesn’t matter now. You’ve got these.”
“I don’t get how it works.”
“I don’t either. Not yet. But there’s got to be a reason your Mr. Parker wanted your soul, and I figure this has to be it. You must be able to use the souls you acquire to prolong your own life. And if you don’t die, then he doesn’t get yours.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just take them. Ask him if you can trade for yours. Only don’t offer them all at once.”
“I won’t.”
3
“So how’d it go?”
“He didn’t want them. He says there’s varying grades of souls. The ones you got are only worth a year or so because the people that signed them over don’t really care about their lives anymore.”
“He could tell that just by looking at pieces of paper?”
“Apparently. He says you need higher quality ones to buy you a decent amount of time.”
“But we’re on the right track.”
“I suppose. But it doesn’t feel right.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Trading people’s souls like this.”
“Hey, they didn’t have to sign them away.”
“But they didn’t know.”
“So what are you saying? I should give them back?”
“I don’t know. It?
??s just … after signing away my own I can feel for them.”
“I was just trying to help.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.”
“So what did he teach you today?”
“Nothing new. He just showed me some meditation techniques to make it easier for me to narrow my focus. You know, so that when I practice, it’s more productive.”
“Figures. He’s already got you hooked.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking. Maybe he conned me with the soul business, but the rest of what he’s showing me’s on the level. Here, look how hot I can make this flame.”
“Jesus, it’s like a tiny blowtorch.”
“Cool, huh?”
“Sure, if you ever want to weld anything really, really small, I guess.”
4
“Mr. Parker?”
“Yes?” “My name’s Robert Chaplin.”
“Oh, yes. Peter’s friend. The one who’s trying to help him break his deal with the devil.”
“Are you the devil?”
“The devil is rather a recent conceit. I’m much older than that.”
“Which doesn’t really answer my question.”
“It’s not really relevant. Was that all you wanted to know?”
“No. I… this stuff you’re teaching Peter. Is it all just going to be parlor tricks?”
“What I’ve taught him, and will teach him, are hardly tricks. They are lessons that will help him to understand the underpinnings of the world. The more proficiency he gains, both in understanding the makings of the world and in manipulating them, the closer he will come to achieving the potential I see inside him.”
“Unless he dies first.”
“Everyone dies, Mr. Chaplin. Everything has an expiry date.”
“Except for you.”
“Even me. I’m long-lived, not immortal.”
“So why Peter?”
“He has a bright fire in his soul. He has so much potential.”
“But what’s that to you?”
“I like to help people.”
“By stealing their souls.”
“That isn’t how I’d phrase it.”
“Then how would you phrase it?”
“I’m bound to help others. It’s … part of the bargain I made.”
“Of course. You had to make a bargain, too. Who’d you sell your soul to?”