TWENTY-ONE

TINK FELL silent. She’d never felt so tired, and all she’d done was tell stories. She’d told Mother Dove about the adventures she’d had with Peter and about their friendship. She’d said how he used to tell her his jokes and ideas, and she’d admired every one. Extravagantly. She’d admired them extravagantly.

Of course, Peter hadn’t reciprocated. He wasn’t much of a listener, or much of an admirer of anything that didn’t come from him.

Tink had even admitted to Mother Dove that she’d neglected her pots and pans for Peter. She hadn’t said to Mother Dove, “I loved him,” but her meaning had been tantamount to saying so.

“His hair was so silky,” she’d said. “I used to perch on his head, just to feel it. And his nose! I could tell if he was smiling by looking at nothing but his nose. It would flatten when he smiled and wrinkle when he laughed. And when he wasn’t smiling or laughing, it was as nice as a frying pan.”

There was little left to tell, only the bit that made her feel the most betrayed. She didn’t want to tell it. It was too embarrassing and too painful.

“Go on,” Mother Dove said.

Tink tugged on her bangs. “But it’s sad,” she said, hoping she wouldn’t have to continue.

“Go on,” Mother Dove said. How sad could anything be, compared to the egg?

Tink nodded. “That first day, after I saved him from the shark, I showed him my workshop. I showed him everything. I fixed a pot while he watched.” Tears streamed down Tink’s cheeks. It could have happened yesterday, that’s how much it hurt.

“When I was done…” She had to stop and take a few deep breaths. “When I was finished fixing the pot, he said…” She hiccupped. “He said, ‘How clever I am to pick the very best fairy.’” Tink faced away from Mother Dove and sobbed.

“He couldn’t have meant it,” Tink continued while weeping. “If he really thought I was the best, why did he bring over the Wendy?” She collapsed on the sand, still sobbing. “Why did he spend all his time with her?”

Mother Dove was momentarily taken outside herself. Oh, my, she thought. Tink has carried that a long while. Poor Tink.

Rani and Vidia didn’t wake up until the sun was setting.

“Dear child,” Vidia said, “how could you let us sleep so long? Do you think we have time to waste? Do you think?”

Even Rani said Prilla might have used better judgment.

Prilla thought sadly that judgment was another talent she didn’t seem to have.

The three of them carried the cigar holder to the shed at the fairy circle. As Ree had promised, the egg was there, along with a balloon carrier, a low-sided wagon held aloft by dust-filled balloons. A cord was attached to the wagon, so a fairy could pull it along.

The queen had also left a surprise in the shed, a fig-chocolate cake that had been baked before the hurricane. It had been freshly iced, however. The icing was white with red letters that said, Congratulations on your first success!

Rani said they’d go to the hawk next. It was the obvious choice, because the lagoon is dangerous at night. The mermaids do their deepest singing then. Clumsies have been driven mad by the sound, and fairies have been turned into bats. Even fish avoid the lagoon at night.

On the other hand, night was the sensible time to go to the hawk, who’d be away hunting during the day. Rani lifted the dust satchel strap over her head. She opened the satchel and sprinkled dust on each of them.

Two days of dust remained.

The distance from the fairy circle to the hawk’s nest depended on the size of Never Land. Tonight the island was large, so the questers faced a long flight.

They flew over a banana-tree forest, which the hurricane had savaged. They flew over a village of tiffens, the banana farmers. Tiffens, who have ears like an elephant’s, are half the size of Clumsies. They don’t come into this tale, but the fairies trade with them.

It was cold. Prilla and Vidia swung their arms and kicked to stay warm. Rani was hot as usual and wiped her neck with a leafkerchief.

Vidia flew backward for a while, watching the other two. “Darlings,” she said, “you use your wings so ridiculously, it’s a miracle you can fly at all.”

Neither Prilla nor Rani bothered to answer. They were both worrying about Mother Dove. Prilla hoped Mother Dove wasn’t too cold. Rani hoped she was drinking enough liquids. They both refused to think that Mother Dove might already have died. But the fear floated at the edge of their thoughts.

The golden hawk tired easily since the egg’s destruction. When it grew dark, he was glad to return to his nest atop an upright stone in a line of stones on the other side of the wide Wough River.

Vidia remembered all the hawks she’d seen, diving out of the sky, hardly slowing before they pounced on their hapless prey. She wished she could dive like that.

The golden hawk had flown disgracefully low all day, because he was worried about diving. He feared he’d crash.

Rani had heard that the golden hawk had a magic eye. He fixed you with that eye and you lost the will to move. You were half dead by the time he sank his talons into you.

The golden hawk’s vision was failing. Ordinarily he could fly as high as a cloud and still count the blades of grass below. But today all he saw was a green blur. Even worse, he had twice mistaken rocks for rabbits.

Prilla wondered how it would feel to be eaten and how long it would be before she died.

He’d finally pounced on a squirrel. But it had shaken him off by swishing its tail across his face. Then it had scampered away.

He’d never been so humiliated.

After three hours, the questers reached the river and began to follow it upstream. Vidia, who was flying ahead, saw the standing stones in a meadow surrounded by pine trees.

The questers descended into the treetops and approached cautiously.

And there was the hawk, a commanding silhouette against the starry sky.

There was the hawk, wide awake, chilled to the bone, terrified of falling off his stone.