COURT OF THE LITTERFEY

Tristan ...

The breeze should never whisper your name like that.

Tristan shuddered. You’re imagining it. He told himself, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. He squeezed his baby sister Alice’s hand extra hard.

They passed across the bridge over the expressway, kicking litter from underfoot. Cars whooshed underneath them, their hoods shining in the early sun. On the other side, as Tristan and Alice descended the steps onto the footpath that ran alongside what was left of Settler's Garden, a breeze from nowhere picked up, and a discarded newspaper sailed into Tristan's face.

"Woah!"

He threw it down, and that familiar headline glared up at him from the leaf-sodden pavement.

THIRD TRUCK DRIVER DISAPPEARS ON NEW BYPASS.

His stomach twisted. He kicked out his leg and the paper flew into the gutter, where it melted into a puddle and the inks ran into eldritch shapes. Good riddance. For as long as he could remember, all fifteen years of his life, he’d hated the Garden and the main highway, even before the road workers came and tore down half the trees, and the noise from their machines gave him headaches, and the gravel stuck between the toes of his sandals. But now the Garden was absolutely terrifying.

He tucked a strand of curly brown hair behind his ear. His hand came away sticky with sweat. This is ridiculous. What am I so afraid of?

"C'mon Twisty." Alice jogged ahead, already darting through the high stone gateposts marking the entrance to the Garden. "I don't wanna be late!"

"Alice, wait. Let's go past the railway station instead." Tristan jabbed his arm down the street, in the direction of the abandoned train platform at the corner of the street. He could already hear the wind in the branches, bending and creaking towards him. There had been no wind when they left the house.

"That takes too lo-ong. I want to show Suzy my new lip gloss before class. C'mon," she disappeared behind a sage bush. Alice was seven, and things like lip gloss were of the utmost importance.

Tristan jogged towards the gates to the Garden, wanting to keep up. Mum had been so upset since Dad disappeared, he didn’t want to give her anything else to worry about. He’d said he’d look after Alice, so if she ran off into the Garden, he'd have to follow.

If she disappeared like Dad, it would be all his fault.

Tristan could hear her giggling on the path up ahead, but he couldn’t see her through the thick blanket of foliage that choked the garden beds on either side of the open gate. He paused at the threshold, gripping the gatepost with white knuckles and listening for the voice in the wind.

Settler's Garden used to cover an entire central-city block. Soft-curved paths wound their way betwixt herb gardens and saplings of birch, elder and oak. Planters of cowslips and foxgloves lined garden beds blanketed in bluebells and hyacinth. None of these plants grew native in Kentucky, of course. They had been brought over by the Scottish settlers in the 18th century.  And although the rest of the town had slowly covered its heritage with fast-food signs and satellite dishes, this place still smelled foreign, so different from the bluegrass fields and sycamore trees behind his friend Dave’s house.

Wooden benches dedicated to the city's founders nestled under trees and in cosy groves. The pride of the city – a tall water fountain commissioned for their centenary from a Scottish artist – adorned the circular apse where the pathways converged. Its carved plinth depicted the Slaugh: Unseelie faeries with skeletal faces and clawed talons riding on the night winds, burning crops and stealing infants. Marble vines twisted around the stem, converging at a wooded bed where an elegant faerie Queen stood on a marble plinth. Her hands draped over the edges, water dribbling from her idle fingertips into the pond below.

The park was important to the town, but not as important as progress. Five years ago, the main street needed an overhaul, so the town had paid for a row of shops to be built along one edge of the garden. The stone and iron fence surrounding the Gardens was protected by the Historical Society, so it had to stay, but they'd added a cycle lane and paving in behind it, and a parking area in front, and it now housed the butchers shop and a florist inside the boundary of the Garden. Now, a new highway was being built right through the centre of town, so they'd bulldozed several shops and over half the Garden to build the bypass. A small contingent of old-timers and environmentalists had rallied in protest, and the Historical Society had a fit about the fence being torn down and rebuilt around the edge of the new, smaller Garden, but the construction went ahead anyway. Tristan cheered silently as the diggers moved in and uprooted those towering oaks. He'd always found Settler’s Garden too foreign, too wild. He heard things moving in the bushes, chittering in the mysterious breezes, and felt eyes staring at him from the pond under the water clock.

Reduced to a pale shade of its greatness, with half the garden bulldozed into rubble and the florist and the butcher’s shop still encroaching on its western boundary, Settler's Garden seemed even more menacing. Although perhaps everything seemed more menacing now that his Dad was gone.

Tristan took a tentative step across the threshold, then another. Nothing happened. Feeling angry with himself for being afraid, he jogged down the path till he saw his sister. He watched Alice up ahead, ducking this way and that across the path, playing a game with rules only she understood.

Sometimes he wondered if Alice felt them too, the things that he heard and felt in the Garden. Did she sense their shuddering touch? She was spinning in circles on the path, giggling as she twirled, her fingers collecting dew from the branches as she passed by.

She didn’t understand what was happening. Their Dad was often away for weeks at a time, driving up and down the country, delivering lumber or refrigerators. She didn’t know that this time was different. This time he might not be coming back.

The police had found his truck parked in front of the butcher's shop, the cab open like he was only gone for a moment. But he'd been gone for three weeks at that point.  No one knew why the truck was parked there, who had been driving it, or why it had been abandoned. He was the third truck driver to go missing that month. The other two cases were the same: trucks left undamaged, cargo intact, the drivers simply vanished without a trace. Constable Dennis, who showed up at the house frequently to check on their mom, seemed baffled.

The breeze picked up, stirring the leaves and petals on the path, even though it was a cloudless day. Tristan sped up, racing to catch Alice.

"Ow! Twisty, you stood on my foot!"

He hadn't, but he didn’t have time to explain that to the seven-year-old. "Sorry. Alice, we’ve got to hurry. We'll be late for school, remember?" He gripped her arm and dragged her, protesting, outside the northern gate.

***

Ms. McAllister had a Scottish accent, as thick and harsh as that funny comedian Dad let him stay up and watch on TV. She'd grown up in County Cork, but shifted from place to place, writing quilting books and children's tales before she moved to Kentucky and took up teaching. She claimed to be the daughter of a Lutin, as if that explained her capricious nature. She loved to tell stories in her booming, foreign tongue, and her favourite characters were the faeries. She told proper stories too, about the founding fathers, about the war of independence and the Union and all the stuff that turned up in exam questions. But the class had heard retellings of those stories since the first grade. Ms. McAllister and her faeries were much more interesting, and besides, anything was more interesting than algebra.

Today, she scrawled 'Folklore' across the board, and asked the class if anyone could tell her what it meant.

David’s hand shot up. "Like stories with magic and stuff?"

"Noot quite, David. Harry Potter is a story with magic, but it nae be folklore. Think of stories, legends, myths and beliefs native to a specific place. Folklore often teaches lessons, like Aesop's Fables, or warns against dangers. Can anyone think of folklore from our oon town?"

"Mr. Bibby's ghost?" chimed Kathryn. Tristan’s Dad often told the story of Mr. Biddy, an old man who’d lived in the giant, crumbling mansion at the top of their street, back when his Dad was only a boy. Mr. Biddy was a poacher, and he used to go off into the woods with his signature brown coat and an ancient hunting rifle. After he died, people would sometimes report seeing a man wearing a brown coat carrying a carcass through the woods.

"The River Monster!" This was a story local kids told about a monster that lived under the bridge.

"Aye, aye. Anyone else?"

"The faeries," Tristan mumbled into his desk. He heard Ms. McAllister chuckle from her belly. She always did this before she talked of her faeries. They caused her great amusement, even the Unseelie and their cruel Slaugh.

"Aye, Tristan, the faeries. Our town has many fey because people settled in Kentucky from different countries: England, Scotland, Wales, Scandinavia. The stories go that when their own countries became so overcrowded with the troublesome fey, they sailed off in search of new lands on ships of wood, held together with iron nails. Iron, as we all ken, is poison to faeries, and your ancestors knew this too. They were hoping to leave the fey far behind them, but their Green Children snatched rides on the backs of Kelpies, Fossegrim and Water-Nymphs and followed their humans, bringing their mischief to the far-off lands.

"All the courts came: The Daoine Sidhe, the Plant Annwn, and the ethereal Seelie - the High Court of Faerie. Of course the fearsome Unseelie - the Dark Court - weren't far behind. Lashing together Fir-Darrigs ... what's a Fir-Darrig, Cassie?"

"It's a faerie that's half man and half giant rat."

"That's right. So, they made rafts of gnarled, loathsome rat monsters, and they pursued the ships, summoning storms and causing navigators to lose their way. When the first immigrants settled here the fey settled also, preferring to roam in the gardens and groves planted from the seeds of their homelands rather than venture outside the village walls." Her eyes leapt from face to face with excitement as she wrung her hands.

"As the village prospered and became a thriving town, the fey multiplied with the seasons, and a new faerie brugh was born. For many years the fey wandered the area in peace, and the people respected their whims. After a while, the fey grew bolder, more sinister, and their faerie mischief was no longer tolerated by the townsfolk. After all, it was faerie mischief that had sent them across the seas in iron-protected ships in the first place.

“The town elders set down a consecration spell and bound the faeries to a single brugh, where the Settler's Garden stands today. They placed a high iron fence around the outside to keep the Green Children inside. But now, of course, the Garden is smaller, because of the new bypass. Perhaps the faeries are getting crowded." She grinned at the idea.

"My Dad says that people forget that faeries aren't nice."

"Aye, Tristan. Your father kens. Faeries are right bastards, which is why it's important to preserve folklore, so people don't forget.” She turned toward the board and began writing in large, looping letters. “Your assignment is to research one aspect of the town's folklore and write it up as a report. You can work on your own, or in groups of two. We'll combine all the reports into a book, which we'll keep in the school library."

Ms. McAllister always referred to the city as a town. She said that cities are sprawling forests of concrete and steel, smoking towers and gas-guzzling cars trapped in perpetual traffic stalemate, not quaint southern Kentucky farming hamlets with two grocery stores and only seven pubs.

"Can we do illustrations?" asked Deidre, the best artist in the class.

"Of course. I encourage it."

The lunch bell rang. Chairs scraped across the linoleum, the scratches and scuff marks intersecting like ley lines across a sacred field. Tristan grabbed his book bag, shoving his notes deep inside. Dave slapped him on the back. “Mom packed me a lunch today. Want to eat outside?”

Tristan thought of his lunch: a stale sandwich and an old apple he’d managed to find in the bare cupboards that morning. His stomach rumbled. “Sure.”

Tristan’s mom used to pack his lunch every day: two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (the peanut spread extra thick, just the way he liked it). An apple. Crackers and cheese. A container of cut vegetables and dip. Sometimes a slice of homemade brownie or a couple of cookies. In a school where most kids bought a slice of greasy meatloaf or ketchup-soaked fries in the cafeteria every day, he used to be embarrassed by his brown bag. But his Mom hadn’t made lunches, or dinners, or anything else since his Dad disappeared, so Tristan was in charge of that now. Alice complained he cut the vegetables crooked, and the cheese too thick, but at least she was still being fed.

Tristan and Dave found a spot under the ancient oak tree behind the football field. "You wanna be partners?" Dave frowned at his BLT sandwich, fishing out the lettuce. Tristan ripped off the tough corners of his crust and threw them at the birds.

"For what?"

"The folklore project, numb-nuts. We could do that Queen, y'know, from the statue in the garden."

Tristan grunted. Crumbs of sticky bread splattered across his lap.

"Don't be like that. If we do it together we'll only have to do half the work. And you heard McAllister: we'll get extra credit if you draw a picture."

"Why don't you draw the picture?" I don’t want to go in the Gardens. I don’t want to go in the Gardens ...

"What, and have Old Mac confuse it for a ketchup stain again? Don’t be ridiculous, Tristan. You’re the best artist. You're almost as good as Deidre. Geez, what’s your problem?”

As soon as he’d said it, Dave clamped his mouth shut, as though he were trying to trap the words inside. Tristan stared at the half-eaten sandwich in his lap, suddenly no longer hungry. He picked up the bread in his fist, squeezing it tight till the jelly oozed between his fingers. It made him feel slightly better.

Dave broke the silence. “Don't worry about it, Twisty. I didn’t mean it.”

Tristan sighed, wiping jelly on the grass. “I know.”

“Come over to my place next week. My parents are going to be away, and my sister will be too busy with her new boyfriend to care what we do. We'll make a quick job of the project and hang out. I’ve got some new X-Box games we could try.”

Tristan nodded, his chest still tight. “I’d like that.”

***

Tristan had football practice after school, so Mom picked Alice up. She’d bothered to show up this time: a rare occurrence since their father disappeared. She waved at Tristan from the car as she drove past, and smiled, although the smile was forced.

Tristan knew better than to hope it would last.

Alice was oblivious, of course; she hugged her dolly and chatted about something-or-other in the backseat. She couldn't see how Mom's white knuckles clenched the steering wheel, or how the sags of skin under her eyes hung lower each day. Only Tristan heard the tinkling of the wine glasses at night, the click of the lock on Dad's office falling open. Only he looked into her eyes across the kitchen table, and saw an empty, vacant shell staring back.

Nowhere was his father's absence more noticeable than on the football field. If he wasn't away on deliveries, he'd be watching Tristan's practice, gripping a can of soda in his large fingers as he cheered Tristan on. "You can do it, Tristan!" he'd yell, even if Tristan didn’t have the ball. Dad was a bit short-sighted from all those days of squinting at the road, and sometimes it seemed as if he didn't really understand the game at all.

Dad usually missed a few games each season, but he'd never missed three weeks of practice before. Tristan felt the absence of his father's support on his shoulders, a pocket of empty air that should rightfully be occupied. His fingers slipped on the ball, his legs dragged behind him. The defence, usually his strongest position, buckled under his sagging shoulders.

He dragged himself home, shrugging off the jeers of his frustrated teammates. As he approached the bypass, the Gardens loomed ahead, lit by two glaring, old-fashioned metal lights screwed into the gateposts.

The wind picked up, and Tristan hugged his bare forearms. He crossed at the lights and turned at the corner of the gates, intending to walk down to the railway station, avoiding the Gardens completely.

Tristan...

A voice called him. He couldn't tell where it came from. He glanced all around. The street was completely deserted. The breeze shook the leaves that pressed through the iron grate. Over his head, branches shifted, stretching their talons toward him. The only place it could have come from was ... from inside the gates.

No way. I'm not going in there. He bent forward, eyes to the ground as he picked up his pace.

Tristan...

A strange feeling swept over his body, like a rush of heat blowing through a cold room. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, he wanted to pass through those gates, to walk inside the Gardens, to touch the crisp leaves between his fingers. He turned around, took a step toward the gate, then another.

This is...some kind...of dark magic...

...Fight it, Tristan...the voice whispered.

His own thoughts dimmed to a faint tremor, overpowered by the pull of the Gardens. A heavy feeling settled on his eyelids, pulling them shut. Tristan took another step, and then another. When he opened his eyes again, he was standing on the other side of the gates.

Tristan...

As quickly as the strange desire entered his body, it left again, leaving him short of breath. The shadows twisted below him, contorting under the streetlights. Tristan tried to pull his feet up, to turn around and escape the Gardens, but some invisible force held them frozen in place. His chest tightened; he swore he saw shapes moving in the corners of his eyes, in the shrubs beneath the sage bushes. He sucked a ragged breath.

Something brushed his ankle. He jumped forward. A strangled cry escaped his chapped lips.

Keep walking Tristan.

That voice...it came from inside his head, yet it wasn't him. Weirdly, he found he could walk forward, but not backwards. He was been led by this invisible force through the Gardens.

What is going on?

Only two hundred feet to go and he'd be safe. He squared his shoulders and forced his breathing to slow. He could feel his heart thumping.

Then he saw it, a dark shape leaping and darting across the pavement. He froze.

Another one came at him from the side, brushing against his foot with a sound like a chocolate cookie being crushed between sharp teeth. He cried and jumped back, squinting in the poor light.

It fell against the battered stone wall and stopped. A potato chip bag. Figures. The gutter was littered with rubbish.

You're frightening yourself. Keep moving. You're almost home.

He took another step forward.

Suddenly, even though the air fell still and soft as a pillow, the gutter fluttered to life. Plastic bags, flattened coke bottles, grease-speckled takeaway bags, bent cigarette butts and empty yoghurt containers stood on end and marched from their hobbit holes. Soda cans lolled to and fro, carving cruddy paths on the concrete. As one, every piece of rubbish rose from the gutter and scrambled, flew, rolled, tumbled and soared across the path and disappeared under the sage bushes.

The path, now bare, fell silent. Tristan – heart pounding – ran from the Garden as fast as he could.

***

The house was dark when Tristan got home. His stomach rumbled, remnants of his unsatisfying lunch swimming around inside. He unlocked the back door and set his bag down on the kitchen bench. He could hear the TV playing in the other room - Alice’s favourite show.

“Mom?” He fumbled for the light switch.

He jumped. She was sitting at the kitchen table, hands clasped in front of her, half-finished wine glass nestled between them. The empty bottle stood on the bench behind her, and another, also empty, peeked out of the recycling bin. She didn’t even flinch when the light went on.

“Oh, Tristan ... you’re home.” She sounded far away, as if he were talking to her over the phone, instead of across the kitchen table.

He opened the fridge. “Is there any food?” Eating something might calm his frayed nerves.

She looked around the room, her face blank, confused, as if she didn’t even realise where she was. “I ... I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Tristan pulled out a block of cheese and cut off a slice for himself. He grabbed the phone off the wall, dialled the local pizza joint, and ordered two large pepperoni and fries.

“I’ll need some money,” he said, sitting down across from her and stuffing the cheese in his mouth. “For the pizza. I got it with extra pepperoni, just the way you like it.”

She nodded, not even bothering to scold him for talking with his mouth full. Tristan found her wallet buried under a stack of unopened mail, and pulled out several notes. He kept two aside for the pizza and stuffed the rest in his pocket, thinking he could stop at the market after school tomorrow and pick up some food. His mother didn’t even notice.

They sat in silence, his mother sipping the wine and staring at the wall behind his head. Tristan stared at the bright floral pattern on the tablecloth, his mind racing as he replayed the scene in the Gardens over and over and over.

He hadn’t imagined it. He could still feel the tingling where that empty bag had caressed his ankle. He closed his eyes and watched the litter along the path dancing under his eyelids, rolling and soaring and tumbling through the air, as if drawn on invisible strings.

It was just the wind. He told himself, over and over. He wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t. He’d been standing there. The air was perfectly still. All that litter had moved of its own accord.

Tristan laid his head in his arms, his cheek resting on the tablecloth. A single tear rolled down his cheek. I want to talk to Dad. His father read thick books about folklore and archaeology and strange African rituals. He was fascinated with that kind of stuff. He would believe Tristan.

But Dad wasn’t there.

“Mom?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I was walking home through the Gardens tonight, and something really strange happened. I felt something grab at my ankle, like it was trying to trip me, and then all the litter on the ground-”

"Probably faeries." She mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

"Faeries. They live in the Garden. They were probably moving the litter around. That's the sort of thing they enjoy."

Tristan leaned forward. He'd never heard her even mention faeries before. Her eyes had focused on his face, and she tapped her fingers against the stem of her glass. "Have you seen a faerie, Mom?" he asked.

She snorted. "No. Marcus said I don't have "the sight", whatever that means. He was always mumbling about faeries in that garden. You know how he believed in all that nonsense about ghosts and spirits and witches."

This was the first time she'd mentioned Dad's name in a week. A good sign, even if she was talking about him in the past tense. He tried to keep her interested in the topic.

"It was probably nothing. I have to do an assignment about the old legends of the Garden. I was walking through thinking about the faeries and I must've spooked myself-"

"Your Dad had some books about faeries. I could find them for you, if you like. They might be useful for your assignment."

"I'd like that very much."

There was a knock at the door. Tristan’s mom sprang from her seat, like a coiled snake pouncing. Then, she seemed to deflate before his eyes, slumping back in her chair and shrinking into that pale shade of a person she'd been since his Dad had gone missing. "The pizza is here," she said listlessly.

Tristan paid for the pizza, and brought it into the living room. His mother followed with plates and napkins. Alice got up from her spot on the sofa and joined them at the table. Mum hunched over her, wrapping Alice tight in her arms, pulling Tristan in her embrace. "I love you." She whispered to them. Tristan saw a single tear run down her cheek.

Alice shot Tristan a wide-eyed look and tried to wriggle away. “Mommy, I’m trying to watch my show!”

Mum let them go. She reached across the table and opened the boxes.  A rich, cheesy smell wafted through the room, but Tristan didn’t feel hungry any more.

***

Tristan woke to a darkened room and a tiny hand pulling away his blankets. “Twisty?” A soft voice whispered. “Are you awake?”

He groaned and rolled over. “Alice? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in bed?” The clock on his bedside read 2:21.

“I need to sleep with you, okay Twisty?”

He reached out and felt her face. It was wet with tears. He placed his arm around her and pulled her up into bed with him, wrapping the blanket around both of them. “Of course it’s okay. Did you have a bad dream?”

“There’s something in my room. I can see yellow eyes staring at me.” She shuddered.

“It was just a dream, Alice. There’s nothing in your room except for piles and piles of toys.”

“I saw it, Twisty. I saw it right there in the corner.”

“Hush. You're safe now. There's nothing here except you and me. Now, go to sleep.”

She was silent for a while. Tristan started to fall asleep again, but then she said. “Daddy isn’t coming home, is he?”

“Of course he is.” Tristan stroked her hair. He didn’t want her to start crying again. “It’s just taking longer than we thought to find him. The police are very good at what they do. They are going to find Daddy and bring him home, and then everything will be okay again.”

He wished he believed his own words. But their father had been missing for five weeks. No one had seen him. No one had come forward with any information, even though they’d shown his picture on the national news and everything. The police were baffled, and Tristan was dangerously close to having his last vestiges of hope slip through his fingers. But he had to protect Alice for as long as possible.

“He’s coming back, Alice. Don’t worry.”

“I miss Daddy.”

“Me too.” He squeezed her extra tight. “Me, too.”

***

The following day Tristan stalked, bleary-eyed, past the gate to Settler's Garden, avoiding even crossing onto that side of the road. Alice sprinted after him, protesting, but he ignored her.

Their new route passed through the abandoned railway station. One rail car still sat on the disused track, its hatch and gear wheels rusting under the sun. Tristan's mom was forever petitioning the council to clean the area up, and turn the old station building into a historical café or something. Tristan liked it the way it was: a maze of twisted metal and empty bottles of Jack Daniels, the air thick with rust.

They crossed over the tracks and doubled back though Bibby Lane. Tristan hiked his bag up on his back – it was heavy with the folklore books Mom had found for him. Alice jogged beside him. "Why do we have to go the long way? I'm tired, Twisty."

"I don't want to go through the Garden again."

"But that's not fair, all my friends are there!"

He stopped and stared at her.

“What do you mean?”

Alice shrugged. “My little friends. They live in the trees and talk to me and play games with me.”

"Can you see them?"

"Who?"

"Your friends, in the park. Can you see them?"

She giggled. "No one can. Maybe I am just special. They told me I shouldn't talk about it."

He let it slide. She was probably pretending, anyway.

***

Some of his friends on the football team wanted to have a quick game at lunchtime, but Tristan decided not to join them. "I didn't finish my math homework," he lied. "Old Mac is making me clean her classroom." The team nodded their commiserations. As soon as the boys disappeared across the field, Tristan ducked back into the school and found himself a seat in the back corner of the library, right next to the section on machines and engineering.

Thankfully, the library was nearly deserted, shared only by the old librarian reading romance novels behind the desk and a nerdy senior girl slumped over some textbooks. Tristan dumped out his dad's books on the table. Choosing one at random, he flipped it open, his breath catching in his throat as he stared an old woodcut of a faerie court, joining together in a riotous dance as they surrounded a human corpse. The faerie in the picture looked exactly like the statue in the gardens.

The title of the chapter was "Seelie and Unseelie Courts". Tristan's eyes raced across the page as he drank in the information. The two courts vie for control of the realms of faerie, and have specific rules for their dealings with humans. The Seelie, according to the book, dispensed justice and arbitrated faerie quarrels, of which there were many. They moved about in a procession of brilliant light, and although they could be mischievous, they rarely caused any real harm to humans. The code of the Seelie bound them to repay any debt as quickly as possible.

The most evil and malicious faeries comprised the Unseelie, the Court of the Unblessed. These faeries and their hordes of fearsome monsters and unsanctified dead took part in the Slaugh – they rode on black clouds and faerie winds, causing mayhem and torturing humans wherever they crossed their path. The Unseelie had a code, too – they believed that to not use their powers was a sin, and that to act upon their passions, no matter how unsavoury those passions may be, was the ultimate state of being. Some scholars believe the Unseelie were actually fallen fey from the Seelie Court-

"Well, here's a face I don't often see in here."

Tristan jumped as the voice boomed in his ears. He dropped the book, and it clattered on the table.

"Scared you, did I?" Ms. McAllister leaned over the table, peering at the open book on the floor. "I ken you've got a filthy magazine in there."

"No, Ms. McAllister." Tristan mumbled, as he scrambled to pick up the book.

His teacher slid into the chair opposite him, and pulled one of the books off his stack. She flipped through the pages, sucking in her breath as she came across some particularly nasty images. "You're taking this assignment quite seriously, I see?"

Tristan shrugged, although his heart was pounding in his chest. He knew Ms. McAllister knew all about the faeries, but did he dare ask her what he wanted to ask. "Dave's my partner. If I don't take this assignment seriously, it won't get done."

She let out a hoot. "What folk story have you chosen?"

"We're going to do the Seelie Queen. You know, the one who has her statue in the Gardens?"

She set the book down on the table, slamming the cover down with a bang. She fixed her eyes on his with a hard stare. "Tristan, you should be careful in the gardens."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember that faeries, even the ones that seem small and sympathetic, cannae be trusted. Remember that whatever they ask you to do - even if it seems like nae trouble at all, even if you're happy to help them - there will always be a catch."

"I don't know. Ms McAllister, there's something-"

"I think that you do ken." She stood, nodding at him again. "Remember what I said. Remember there are people watching out for you."

And then she was gone. Tristan turned around the book she had opened. It had landed on a page that showed a horde of faeries – some tall and thin and beautiful, with light shining from their bodies, and others twisted with shadows and scorched with flames – descending on a village. People ran in all directions, but the fey were cutting them down, pulling off their heads, dancing on their corpses, waving their entrails around like streamers. The caption read:

Sometimes, the faeries courts will work alongside each to get what they want, or to exact revenge on humans for perceived slights. This bond never lasts long, however, and the courts are once again at odds.

***

"C'mon Twisty, I want to get this done. I'm nearly on the last level of Zombie Apocalypse Slaughterhouse." Dave pulled on his arm. School had been out for an hour, and they’d been standing outside the gate to Settler’s Garden for the past twenty minutes. Every time Dave made to go inside, Tristan had to tie his shoe, or text his mom, or check that he had the right textbooks in his bag. He was stalling for time, and he knew it. He didn’t want to go back in there, but he didn’t want to tell Dave why.

"I need to be home before eight." Tristan protested, yanking his arm away. “Maybe we should do this another day, and just go play Zombie Apocalypse-”

"Maybe you don’t care, but I actually want to do a good job on this assignment.” Dave made a face. “Mom’s been on my case about my grades, so let's get this over with."

“Fine.” Tristan’s stomach twisted into a knot. He wrapped his clammy fingers around the straps of his backpack, lifted it higher on his shoulders, tried to force his face into a carefree expression.

Dave shoved his hands in his pockets. "Bit of a breeze here, eh?"

Tristan stared down the path between those two brick and iron pylons. He didn't want to go inside, but he couldn't have Dave call him a wimp, or, worse yet, an emo. He straightened himself to his full height, reminding himself that it was just a garden, just leaves and flowers and branches, and it couldn’t hurt him. He followed Dave down the path.

Leaves cascaded from the reaching branches, scraping over their canvas backpacks and tangling in their hair. Their sneakers crunched on fallen leaves and more empty chip packets. Tristan kept his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to see any evidence of Alice's friends.

Tristan ... be careful.

It was that voice again. The one that seemed to come from inside his head.

They stopped in front of the water fountain. Tristan gulped in air, feeling stifled by the cloying scent of the hyacinth and his own sense of impending doom. Dave took out his notebook and began scribbling down the message written on the silver plaque.

Tristan crouched gingerly on the edge of the fountain – resting his pad awkwardly on his knee – and sketched out the Slaugh panel and the beautiful faerie Queen. The water rippled and gurgled, lapping at the edge of his shorts.

Time passed. The Queen was giving him trouble. Every time he drew her expression, it seemed off, as if the stone was moving every time he looked down at his pad. Leave it. Copy her face from the picture in Dad's book. He moved on, sketching in her cascading hair and the drapery in her dress. He was actually starting to enjoy himself. The knot in his stomach started to unwind.

He was adding shading to the bottom of her skirt when drops of water fell on his drawing.

"Hey, Dave, watch it!"

More drops fell, smudging the rendered face.

He looked up. Dave was gone.

In fact, the whole garden had fallen silent. He could hear no birds, no footsteps, no cars on the bypass, no laughing children. And though the breeze still blew, he could hear no rustle of leaves sliding across the path.

He snapped his pad shut, and felt something wet creep along his leg. Creep up his leg...

"Dave? Dave?"

He didn't care if his friend teased him about this for the rest of his life. He wanted out of the Garden.

Water splashed on the concrete at his feet. He leapt up, backing away from the fountain.

"Dave!" His cry echoed through the silent trees. “If you’re hiding, it isn’t funny!”

More water splashed over the side of the fountain, soaking his shoes. He tried to wriggle away, but an invisible force clamped his feet in place. Cool water slid over his leg, along his calf, and up his torso. Wet patches appeared on his t-shirt.

What’s going on? Tristan tried to cry out, but the water slid around his neck, over his throat, squeezing his vocal chords.

Help, help! What’s happening? I’m drowning ... Dave, help!

Heart pounding, Tristan tried to back away. The water pulled him back, like strong currents running through miniature streams, threatening to suck him down the plughole.

He stared down at the pool. The surface of the water started to churn and bubble. A shape was forming beneath the surface. He leaned away as far as he could: fat, terrified tears welling up in his eyes as the pressure enveloped him, squeezing tight. The water kept pulling him closer, closer.

As he stared in horror, a woman's face emerged from the pool, followed by a torso. Her long arms held him, wrapping around his leg and chest. The water rushed along his limbs, falling over her translucent body and splashing across her wet, swirling face. Her teeth were black, like fish in the cold stream, and her features were not beautiful, but old and wizened, as if her skin had wrinkled from too long in the water.

"Tristan?" Her voice sounded soft, kind, like the gurgle of a tiny brook.

He’d read enough of the legends, heard enough of Ms. McAllister’s stories, to know he was staring into the eyes of a faerie. A real, living faerie made of water.

They do exist. They are real.

He was scared, yes, but also strangely relieved. Now that he could see her, now that he knew that a faerie really existed in the Garden, he didn’t have to fear what he couldn’t see anymore. She didn’t seem so terrible. In fact, her cool touch against his skin soothed him ...

He tried to shake off that calming feeling, that sense that everything he was seeing and feeling was completely normal. That voice inside his head spoke to him again. You have to stay in control, Tristan. That’s part of their magic. They make you want to trust them.

The grip on this throat loosened, and he choked out, "Wha-what are you?"

"I am Cyhiraeth, a servant to the Marble Queen, Lady of the Seelie Court." The water faerie nodded at the marble statue standing on the plinth beside the fountain. "I dwell here in the Garden."

"Wh-what do you want with me?"

Her ice-blue eyes locked on his. "Your father is alive, but in danger."

The mention of his father made Tristan jump. "How do you-"

"The Unseelie took him, and the others too. They are not happy about the loss of their lands."

Tristan’s blood turned cold. The Unseelie were the malevolent host from his father's books; they spread across the ancient lands and attacked humans in the night, capturing lone travellers and forcing them to perform horrible crimes. They tortured their human captives by cutting their faces, burning their hands, and forcing them to attack their loved ones. The thought of his father being captured by them ... it was too much ...

If the Unseelie have Dad, the police can’t help him. I have to rescue him.

Tristan addressed Cyhiraeth. "How do I find my Dad?"

"We can help you find your father, but first, you must help us. If the Unseelie break the spell on the brugh, no human or fey in this town will be safe. You have to drink the water."

"But-"

"You have the Sight, Tristan. You have a special gift. Your father has it also. And now he’s in danger. If you want to help him, you must drink the water. When you drink, all will be revealed." She cupped her hands.

The Seelie are bound by their code to repay any debt. He'd read that in his father's book. But that was just words on a page; this was a real, living faerie, and Tristan didn't know if he could trust her.

Suddenly, Tristan felt his throat itch. He coughed, but the itch remained. He was desperate for a drink, just a sip of something to take the tickle away. He coughed again, but the itch only grew stronger.

Tristan leaned forward; the water smelt so cool and fresh.

"It's very warm today, Tristan. You should have a drink."

The water sparkled like crystal droplets under the afternoon sun. He bent double, tossing his sketchpad carelessly into the dirt. He scooped up a handful of the water and splashed it into his mouth.

He swallowed. Suddenly, his throat burned with thirst. He hadn’t realised how desperately he needed a drink. He bent down and gulped back another handful.

"More!" Cyhiraeth cried.

Tristan lapped at the pool like a puppy, his hair falling in sodden tendrils over his forehead. He drank till his lips puffed and his breath came out in ragged gasps, but still he couldn't quench that itch.

"Enough." Cyhiraeth's head disappeared beneath the surface. The waters rushed and closed over her, and all was still. He froze, staring at the spot where she'd crouched, pushing his arms down into the pool, trying to feel her. But there was nothing.

As quickly as it had begun, the itch in his throat died away. His stomach swirled and gurgled in protest to all the water inside it.

Where did she go? What do I do now?

Tristan leaned back against the stone wall of the fountain, and looked up in to the trees.

Straight into the beady, green-grey eyes of a faerie.

Tristan jumped. The faerie twittered and flew off, dappled wings catching beams of sunlight. It was the kind of faerie you saw in story books, a little human girl with wings like a dragonfly that whirled around her body. As she moved, she left behind her a trail of brilliant light. Tristan turned to pick up his sketchpad, thinking to draw a picture for Alice, but the pad leapt away from him.

He grasped for it, but it jumped away again. He pounced, and managed to grip it and haul it off the ground. Clinging to the spiral binding were two sprites, so small and willowy they faded into translucency, each one wreathed in that same enchanting light. Folletti, Ms. McAllister would've called them. If she'd seen them, which she couldn't, because faeries didn't exist and he was imagining things. Wasn’t he?

I can see them, and touch them? They can touch me, and my things. They must be real. But what do they want with me, and why can I see them now when I never could before? Cyhiraeth said I had the Sight - is this what she meant?

He rubbed his eyes, closing and opening them again. The folletti were still there, shaking their tiny fists and yelling at him in waifish voices he couldn't hear.

"Tristan, buddy, where were you?"

Tristan whirled around, his heart pounding against his chest. Dave appeared on the path. Two faeries tangled themselves in his hair, giggling as they tickled his nose with a blade of grass. He sneezed and rubbed the itch.

"Uh-" Tristan pointed to the faeries. Dave’s gaze followed his finger. He shrugged, and flicked a stray leaf off his shoulder.

"Stupid leaves. C'mon, I'm starving. My sister has mac and cheese waiting for us."

"Uh-"

Dave stepped forward. A shaggy man with wrinkled brown skin about the height of Tristan's school ruler stepped between Dave's sneakers and began furiously plucking hairs from his bare legs.

"Ow! Let’s get out of here. I’m getting bitten by insects. C'mon Tristan!" Dave slapped at his legs. He picked up something from the ground. "Look, what an idiot. You've got your sketchbook all wet. Let's go home; you gotta try Zombie Apocalypse Slaughterhouse. It’s awesome-"

Tristan trailed after him, not hearing a word his friend said. He could see the fey everywhere now, nestled in the branches of the trees, darting across the park, peeking out from behind the rose bushes. Faeries. I see faeries...and some of them have my father.

As the boys passed through the gate, the faeries released Dave’s hair and scampered back into the trees. Tristan jogged after Dave, his eyes focusing on his shoes, hoping in vain that he'd imagined the whole thing.

***

“Tell me about the faeries."

"Twisty, get out of my room!" Alice threw down her doll and prepared to slam the door.

"No, Alice..." He jammed his foot in the door, changing his tone to pleading. "It's important. Tell me about the faeries."

Alice opened the door. "You're standing on one right now."

He looked down, and sure enough, another of the gnarled faeries pushed in vain at his sneaker, its face red and strained as it tried to squeeze itself out from beneath Tristan’s weight. Its body however, was not made of flesh like the fey he’d seen in the Gardens, but moulded from twists of Styrofoam; the broken edges of takeaway Chinese containers.

"How did he get out of the Gardens?" Tristan knew the legend – the fey were bound to the brugh with a spell. They're not supposed to be able to leave.

"That's Foam.” Alice bent down and patted him on the head. “I took him home one day, but he seems sick all the time.”

“How long have you seen them?”

She shrugged. “I’ve always seen them. I thought everyone did, but you and Mom always laughed at me, so I stopped talking about them. I don't see them all, just the bigger ones, and even then they're faint, like they are made of fog. Some are pretty, like the flowers in the park. They're green with butterfly wings and hair like moss. But some are really scary, like the hairy one that..." her eyes darted to the washing pile in the corner of her room.

"Alice?"

Her face grew distressed. He leaned over so she could whisper in her ear.

"Ever since Daddy disappeared, I've seen one in that corner at night- a shadow with big, spiky hair and orange eyes. Yucky eyes." She shuddered.

“The one in your dream?”

“I never said it was in a dream.”

Tristan sat down on her bed, watching the little faerie hop around on the floor, one of its styrofoam legs now bent at an odd angle. It saw him staring and began to hop up on down, pointing a tiny finger at him and squeaking angrily.

“That’s why you’ve been sleeping in my bed?” Tristan said. “You see faeries.”

She nodded, her eyes wet with tears. “I miss Daddy.” She whispered.

He whispered back. "I think some of the faeries may have taken him away.”

She shook her head. “Not Foam. He’s a good faerie. He says some of the faeries are bad, though.”

“They are really bad. We’ve got to rescue Dad, before they do something awful to him. I need you to come with me tonight."

"We'll get in trouble."

"Not if you don't tell."

***

"Quiet!" Tristan hissed as Alice struggled through the hedge.

"But it's caught me!"

Sighing, he freed her jumper from the thorn, and they moved along the street, ducking low, keeping to the shadows. Her fey friend, Foam, scuttled along the ground behind them.

The other houses were quiet; a few lights on here and there, but Tristan heard no voices save the night birds and the territorial wars of neighbourhood cats.

Along the stretch of highway that pressed against the boundary of the Garden, the streets were strangely bare, as if some ghost sweeper had tidied in the night. But as Tristan squinted in the gloom, he saw the familiar glint of beer cans and other litter under the shrubs and jammed between the iron grates.

Alice grabbed his hand, whimpering as she pushed herself behind him. Foam scrambled up her leg and clung to the back of her shirt.

“What’s wrong?” He tugged her forward, but she wouldn’t move. “Alice? We have to-”

"He's up there." She covered her face with her sleeve. Tristan squinted at the awning above the butcher's shop, and sure enough, a black shadow stretched across the corner. Two hind legs with curled toes and a coating of bristle-like hairs hung over the edge. Further back, in the darkness, a pair of glowing orange eyes, their irises slanted like a cat’s, watched him.

He didn't need his father's book to tell him that faerie belonged to the Unseelie court.

His heart pounding with fear, Tristan kept his eyes glued on the creature. He placed his hands on Alice’s shoulders and guided her gently down the street, not crossing the road until they were well past the butcher’s shop. She let out a great sob.

Tristan didn’t want to let the shadow faerie from his sight, so he backed down the street, pulling the sobbing Alice behind him. He darted a glance behind him, saw the gates of the Garden only a few feet away, and backed up even faster.

"Alice, in here." Tristan pulled her inside the gates, and instantly felt a rush of relief. He wondered if Cyhiraeth had cast some sort of spell to let them know they were safe inside the walls of the Garden. Alice let go of him. She too, seemed instantly happier, the tears in her eyes already dried. Foam crawled back down her leg, raised his bent arm as if in salute, and disappeared underneath one of the bushes.

Weird.

Tristan felt that breeze on his arms again, the cold rush of air that bit every time he passed within the Garden. At night the place seemed even eerier, like some forgotten realm outside the real world. The trees rustled with life, faeries wriggled on the branches and tugged at the flower beds, trailing that ethereal white light behind them as they moved. The whole garden was crowded with them, practically bursting as they fluttered near the edges, never touching or crossing that barrier.

Something sharp pinched his ankle. He looked down and saw a strange faerie crawling over his foot. It looked almost like a scorpion, and it waved one of its sharp pincers in the air at Tristan, as if he'd pissed it off somehow. On its back were scales made from the tabs of soda cans. Wincing, he kicked it away. It scuttled into the bushes at the edge of the Garden, and disappeared.

“Don’t be mean. That’s one of Foam’s friends.” Alice scolded him. “What do we do now, Twisty?”

“We need to speak to Cyhiraeth.” He rubbed the goosebumps on his arms. "She told me the bad faeries have Dad. I'm hoping she'll be able to tell me how I can get him back." He took Alice’s hand and they walked deeper into the garden, all around them the trees buzzing and whirring with fey.

They reached the pool under the fountain. "Drink," Tristan sank onto the bench, trying to ignore the jittering fey leaping around them.

"It has leaves in it." Alice screwed up her face.

"It's safe. Drink."

She splashed water into her mouth. All around them, the clamour of the faeries grew louder, more urgent. "Now what?"

"Can't you see them-"

She moaned softly. Now she saw them, too. All of them.

The branches rattled like deaths-knell. The grasses caressed their ankles. Slowly the fey emerged, like great green swarms they descended from their leafy nests, dropping on the grasses with tiny feet that tapered into nothingness. They were myriads of sizes and shapes: some dark and bulbous, some gnarled and frightful, some petite with dainty hands and mischievous smiles. A swarm of the translucent creatures that had held Tristan's sketchbook flittered above the crowd, their tiny bodies reflecting moonlight, bathing the group in a golden sheen. Cyhiraeth peeked over the surface of the water, her black teeth glinting under the moonlight.

Every one of the faeries trailed a white tail of light across the moonlight sky.

"Twis-"Alice grabbed his hand.

"I know. It’s okay. I think they are friends."

"No, Look!" She tugged and pointed at the statue of the Faerie Queen. He whirled aground as something shattered against the gobbles. It was a piece of marble. Tristan's stomach clenched as he saw a crack appear through the statue. The marble split, crackling as the stone broke away and smashed against the ground. Some of the pieces fell into the pool with a plop. Ripples appeared on the surface, larger than the shards, higher, like a tiny tsunami coming to sweep the faeries away.

Tristan watched as two arms, long and pale, wrapped around the crumbling statue from the inside, and pulled.

A figure tumbled from the remnants and flailed, twisting towards them as she fell into the fountain. Water cascaded over the edges and splashed Alice's pyjama legs. She whimpered and hid behind Tristan’s leg. The faeries twittered, as if giggling, but they did step back.

The figure - a woman, petite and lithe – pulled herself out of the pool and fell over the edge. She writhed on the concrete, long fingers curling and uncurling as if she sought to hold something. She rolled over and coughed marble dust.

"Water..." She croaked.

Two bulbous shapes lurched from the ranks and drew water from the fountain, warping their slimy bodies into concave scoops that waddled over to the hunched woman, splashing water everywhere. The woman bent over and lapped hungrily – her movements more feline than human – and splashed her dusty face and body.

When she was sated, she rose. Her limbs bent in awkward jerks, as if she'd forgotten the use of them. Her skin shimmered with a silver pallor, a fine grey dust. Her eyes glowed blue and her corn-coloured hair hung in limp tendrils that curled about her shoulders of their own accord. A pale light shimmered over her skin, casting her entire body in an ethereal glow. Her eyes rested on Tristan and Alice.

"Are these the Seers that awoke me?"

Cyhiraeth glided forward, her form making no ripples on the surface. "They could sense the Green Children even before they drank freely of my water. That one especially," droplets cascaded down her arm as she pointed at Tristan, "has impeccable Sight."

Two butterfae leapt from their perch and fluttered into the Queen's outstretched palm. They twittered at her for several moments, pecking for scraps, then flew off again.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" Tristan pushed wide-eyed Alice behind him. "You are the Queen of the Seelie court?"

"I am."

"My father-"

"The wretched Unseelie have him, no doubt." She spat - most unladylike - on the grass. The translucent sprites crowded round the spitball, and in a few moments it was gone.

"But why did they take him? How do I find him?"

"Why?" She turned and met his gaze. Her ice-blue eyes glowed with venom. "You want to know why?"

She spread her arms wide, gesturing to the crowded court. "Since the humans cut down our brugh to make way for their new road, the trees sag under the burden of the fey, the grasses are trod flat under our weight. Seelie and Unseelie territories are decimated, and there is no longer enough room for two courts to dwell here in the Garden. That’s why they took him."

"So they took him because the Garden is now smaller and they're upset about overcrowding? That's ridiculous. You don't even live here, not really. You all live in the faerie realm. Can't one court just go someplace else?"

"Go someplace else? Dear boy, your kind bound us here in the Garden. This is ancient magic, powerful and nearly impossible to break. Fey cannot breach the brugh walls, and what is in this world, bleeds into the realm of faerie. That is why I have been sleeping, biding my time until we have the opportunity to be free. And that opportunity..." she gave him a wide, kind smile, "...has suddenly presented itself."

"But how will my father help?"

"The Unseelie seek to break the spell that keeps us here. They believe that is the only solution, but for that they need human sacrifices – the blood of certain humans contains magic that will break our bonds. Your father was a blacksmith I take it? He worked with iron?"

"He drives trucks."

The Queen looked quizzical. "Trucks?”

He searched for the right description. “They are like ... enormous carriages, but made of steel."

Murmurs rose through the faerie ranks.

The Queen's lips curled. "He must be a powerful Iron-Dweller. The Unseelie have chosen their victims well. They've taken other men, too, from your world, but I don't think they've made an attempt on the barrier yet. They are probably waiting for the full moon, when their power is strongest."

"You mean you don't know? You're the Queen, how could you not know what the Unseelie are doing, if it's really as crowded in here as you say."

"The fey don't work as you humans do. The Unseelie are free inside the brugh to do as they wish. We do not interfere, and they do not interfere with us. However, we have heard of the humans going missing, and we cannot allow the Dark Court to continue to endanger the whole of faerie. If humans discovered fey were responsible for these disappearances, they will take revenge on all of us. Humans do not understand that some fey are good and some are ..." she paused, her expression strained, as if she could not bear to speak of them. "Inside the Garden, I am all-powerful, but I have no influence outside these walls. You have the Sight, Tristan, and so does your sister. You are now friends of the Seelie, and we look after our friends. But you must understand we can't extend this friendship to anyone who is an agent of the Unseelie. If your father is helping them to escape-"

"No!" Alice leapt out from behind him, her little hands balled into fists. “My Daddy would never help the bad faeries. Never in a million years.”

Tristan pulled Alice back. “She didn’t mean it, Alice. He might not have a choice."

"Our laws are not your laws. We do not recognise a difference," said the Queen. "But the point is academic, because we can do nothing without your help. Will you help us gain dominion over the Unseelie? In exchange, we will be able to spare your father's life, if he is indeed still alive."

"If they needed his help, they’d have to keep him alive.” He glanced up at the Queen. “Right?”

Be cautious Tristan. The fey are tricky. Nothing is ever as it appears.

The Marble Queen smiled, and Tristan forgot the voice. Her sweet breath floated through the air, sweeping clean the hyacinth scent. She smelt as fresh as summer.

"With Iron-Dwellers in their possession, the Unseelie are strong, and their strength grows daily as the full-moon draws near. We are weak here, Tristan. Crowded like this, and battling for territory against the Dark Court, our magic is waning. But one such as you - a Seer with Iron-Dweller blood - can lead my court outside the walls. You can take us to a new brugh, where we can rest and roam and recoup our magic. From there, we can rise up and defeat the Unseelie, before they become too strong for us. And when the Unseelie bow before our power, you shall have your father back."

"Can't I just go to Unseelie-"

The Queen laughed, holding her porcelain hands over her mouth, as if her laughter was rude somehow. Unrestrained, her minions collapsed on each other, rolling on the grass and leaping on the branches as they choked and chortled and giggled.

“The Unseelie are cruel beyond the bounds of nature. They have your father, and now they will know you are a Seer, as well as an Iron-Dweller. They will have much use for you, too. If you go to them, you will never be part of this realm again. They will enslave you in their court, and you will never escape.”

She gave him a smile, triumphant.

Tristan tried to collect his disjointed thoughts, but his head felt light, foggy. "So I must help you. Do I have a choice?"

"There is always a choice." Her eyes bore down on him, and for a moment he swayed on his feet, descending into that blue. She blinked, and he reeled, grabbing Alice to hold himself upright.

"You made the right choice, Tristan."

"What do I do now?"

"You must find us a new brugh. You will find everything you need in those books of yours. Work quickly, for the full moon is in three day's time. I shall call for you when it is time for us to leave this place."

"How shall I know-"

"Oh." She smiled, and it frightened him. "You'll know."

***

The sun was just starting to rise as they crawled back in through Tristan’s window, casting a faint, warm glow over the sleeping town. Red-hued clouds stretched long over the horizon.

They kicked their shoes off, and Tristan pulled the covers over their heads, cradling his sister in his arm. Within minutes, she was asleep, breathing heavily against his shoulder.

He couldn’t sleep. His mind whirled through the events of the evening, through everything he’d seen, and everything the Queen had said.

Dad, if you’re out there, just hold on a little longer. I’m going to find a way to rescue you.

As Tristan closed his eyes, and let fatigue sweep over him, he thought he heard the voice inside his head answer.

I’m waiting, Tristan. I’m holding on.

***

In a few days the city would hold a street parade and market day to celebrate the completion of the bypass, and Ms. McAllister wrangled her students into cleaning litter from the footpath and the Garden as part of their community awareness project.

The Scot marched them along the footpath towards Settler's Garden, breaking off students into pairs and marking out the areas they were to clean. Tristan, bleary-eyed and groggy from lack of sleep, stared at the looming trees and tightened his grip on the rubbish bag, his knuckles burning white and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Where am I going to find a new brugh for the Seelie? The weight of his task loomed down on him from those trees, and it didn't help that he could see hundreds of the Green Children leaping through the branches and preening their moss-dressed wings. If they frightened him with their gaiety and mischief, how would he fare against the malevolent Unseelie?

He remembered the dark shape above the butcher's shop, just inside the boundary of the gardens, and the fright in Alice's eyes when she described the shadow in her room. He shuddered. If that shadow belongs to who I think it does, perhaps the Unseelie are already free ...

He was grateful when Old Mac handed Dave a pole and ordered them to clean the footpath along the perimeter of the Garden. At least he wouldn't have to go inside.

Ms. McAllister rubbed the goosebumps on her arms. "Feel that breeze? That's the Gaoth Shee – the faerie winds."

She stomped away, and Dave laughed. "She's a mental case."

Tristan forced a smile. He could feel the hairs on his legs standing on end.

Again, the area looked eerily clear of litter. They scooped up a couple of crunched beer cans and cigarette butts, and were congratulating themselves on a job well done when Dave happened to bend down and study the overhanging shrubs. "Crap, look at this. There's heaps of garbage trapped under here."

Tristan bent down and peered underneath. Seven pairs of blue-tinged eyes glared back at him.

"What the...?" He jumped back.

"What's wrong?" Dave grabbed his shoulder.

Did that litter really have eyes?

Tristan tried to shrug off his fear. "Nothing. I ... just got a thorn in my hand, is all."

"OK, then. You clear these bushes," Dave grabbed another bag. "I'm going to start at the other end, and I'll meet you halfway."

Tristan watched him walk away, then slowly, cautiously sank to his knees and peered under the bush. Something shuffled forward. "If you're here on her behalf," snarled what appeared to be a winged faerie twisted from potato chip packets and bent toothpicks. "You can clear off."

"I-"

"We saw you here last night. We heard what you agreed to do." More of the litter faeries emerged; their bodies formed of discarded coke cans and scrunched takeaway wrappers. Two stepped forward: one a thin, willowy man, his frame shaped from discarded popsicle sticks, the other was the strange, scorpion-shaped fey that had nipped his ankle the other day. "You doom us all, you know,” said the popsicle fey. “And your kind too, if you do what she asks."

"I have to help them find a new brugh. If I don't, the Unseelie will sacrifice my father." Tristan glanced over his shoulder. No one was looking. He turned back to the faeries. “Why do you care what I choose? Aren’t you Seelie? Don’t you want to be free of the Gardens?”

The scorpion faerie rattled its spines together, as if Tristan’s question caused great agitation. “Look at us.” it snapped. “Do you think she’d allow us to be part of her court? The Seelie only want to be surrounded by beauty, and we are far from beautiful."

"I thought you had potential, kid, but you’re just as foolish as every other human that trusts a faerie," said the popsicle fey. "Do you think when the Marble Queen is free she'll be bothered with humans? Do you think her grand plan is for humans and faeries to live together in harmony? She cares not one whit about your father. She could free him in a moment if she so wanted. But she knows as long as they hold him, you will co-operate with her. Are you really that stupid?"

“He’s my father. I have to rescue him. What else can I do?” Tristan hated that every faerie he talked to seemed to be mocking him.

"We would help you." The scorpion fey spoke, rearing up on its back legs. The jagged shards of broken beer bottles and gleaming caps that made up the armour of its underside caught the light and sparkled. "And we would save your father. All we want in return is a brugh of our own."

"We know you have the power to lead fey across the boundary without harm – that's how your sister took our brother Foam away, and brought him back. He is weak still, but he did not perish."

"I don’t just walk around with an endless supply of faerie brughs stashed in my backpack. You're offering me the same deal as the Marble Queen, except that you are made of garbage. How are you going to fight the Unseelie? I can't help you ... whatever you are."

"We're solitary fey," the popsicle fey answered. "I'm Popper and this is Spindle. We don't belong to a court-"

"We don't like court faeries!" Chimed Spindle.

“We have that in common,” said Tristan.

"Because we are on our own, they can rule us, tell us what to do, where to go. They force us to live on the edge of the brugh, closest to the iron.” Popper pointed up at the iron fence surrounding the Gardens, and shuddered. “They do it to keep us weak, because there are so many of us. And since you humans came along and knocked down half the brugh to build that motorway, they've pushed us further still, right to the very outskirts. We’re clinging to this poison boundary, and many of us have fallen through to the other side, and perished. Worse still, they've pushed the Unseelie so far behind that butcher's shop they're practically dancing on Iron-Dwellers. For someone who claims to be on the side of the humans, she's made it very easy for the Dark Court to take their victims. But you can tell your Queen," he spat out the word, "that we're building an army, and we-aaaargh!"

Something long and metallic pierced through Popper's belly, and yanked him away. Tristan whirled around, horrified to see Dave standing behind him again, shaking his pole off and sliding Popper into the garbage bag, where several of the litter fey writhed in their death throes. Tristan stared at his friend in horror. He could still hear Popper's muffled screams inside the bag.

Dave can't hear them. That's why he hasn't noticed anything odd ... to him they're just garbage, but I see the ... the ... litterfey.

Spindle and the other fey screamed and cursed at him, and scuttled away under the bushes.

“How come you’ve stopped working?” Dave wiped sweat from his forehead. "There must be a hundred potato chip packets tangled in that blackberry. It'll take us all morning."

"We should just leave them." The screaming inside the bag made Tristan feel ill. "No one can see them, anyway."

"True. Are you sure Old Mac won't notice?"

Tristan pointed. Their teacher, wearing furry boots and a fiery frown, clomped down the footpath like a Clydesdale, bellowing at a group of students who were engaged in a mock-medieval joust with their poles.

"Right." Dave tied up the bag and tossed it into a bin.

Tristan waited until Dave wasn't looking, then he slit a hole across the bag and pulled it open. "That's all I can do. People are watching," he whispered as he followed Dave up the street, a hundred tiny litterfey eyes boring into his back.

***

At lunch Tristan dumped his books on to the table in the library again, scouring the indexes for anything about faerie burghs.

"The word 'brugh' comes from an ancient tongue, and describes a fairy dwelling," he read. "The dwelling might be a castle, but it usually means a hollow or 'burrow' in a hill. The fey don't live inside their brugh, as such, but it serves as a glamour, a mirror through which they can reach their own realm. Because of the concentration of fey magic, brughs have a strange aura about them, an eerie sense of foreboding in the air, and few people will choose to venture inside alone. This is how the feyfolk keep their realm secret from humans."

He flipped to another book. "In ancient times, the fey would often venture from their brugh and terrorise nearby villages. This was especially common among the Unseelie, who would raise the souls of the restless dead to fly through the land, kidnapping kind spirits and bringing them back to the court. When humans found themselves the targets of fairy malevolence, they would often create a wall of iron around the exterior of a brugh. This iron barrier, if charged with a binding spell, would prevent the fairies from coming outside and causing mischief."

He found something else in a thick book about Celtic mythology. "Sometimes, the fey move in to places humans wish to occupy. There is very little that can be done to get them to leave. A human might make a deal with the fey to find them another brugh, but that human is then bound by that deal with their life, and the fey are very stringent about these things. Certain spells can be used to bind the fey, to send them back to the realm of faerie, but these are extremely difficult, and only experienced magic weavers can perform them. The fey can also be weakened with iron, and they may leave a place of their own accord if it becomes poisonous to them. And, finally, some humans have elected to fight the fey for possession of their lands, but without magic, this is foolish, and they almost always perish. The only way to win a battle against a faerie is to steal a strand of their hair. If you steal hair from the head of a faerie, and eat it, you will own that faerie's power."

He scribbled it all down, staring at his notes till the words became blurry. Think, Tristan, think. Where can you take the Seelie? What is a place in town surrounded by iron that will be big enough to satisfy the Marble Queen?

Tristan sat down at one of the library computers and pulled up a map of the town, scanning every street for a possible solution. Nothing came to him. He knew the answer was in front of him somewhere, but his fear over his father's safety was clouding his mind. I need help. And there's only one person who would willingly talk about the fey...

Packing his books back into his bag, he went and knocked on Ms. McAllister's classroom door. She smiled when she recognised him. "Tristan, class doesn't start for another 20 minutes."

"I know. Can I talk to you? It's about ... the faeries."

She drew the door open wide and gestured for him to sit down. "Of course. I'm just finishing my lunch."

Tristan dropped into a chair in front of her desk. Old Mac divided her stack of roast beef sandwiches into two, and placed half of them in front of him. Tristan's stomach rumbled; he'd forgotten he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. He grabbed one and stuffed it in his mouth.

"What do they want you to do?"

"Excuse me?"

"Don't look so shocked, Tristan. I know you see them. It takes a Seer to ken another. What I need to know is, what did they ask you to do?"

"But- how do you-"

"In the old country, we still believe in the magic of fey. That makes us more likely to see them, and to ken their tricks."

"The Marble Queen says the Unseelie have my father, and the other truck drivers. She believes they are trying to break the magic of the brugh – the magic that binds the fey inside the gardens. She says if I find the Seelie a new brugh, somewhere nearby, and lead them there, her court will be able to defeat the Unseelie and I will get my Dad back."

"And you believe her?"

"Why would she come to me if she could defeat the Unseelie herself? She needs my help, and she made me a deal. I read that the Seelie can never go back on a deal."

Old Mac nodded. "True enough. Have you found a brugh?"

"That's what I was wondering if you could help me with." Tristan took another bite of sandwich and pulled one of his books onto his lap. "It says here that humans surround a brugh in iron to keep the fey inside, but I only have two days – not enough time to build a fence anywhere. So it should be a place that's already surrounded in iron, somehow. Also, it should be somewhere people hardly ever go, so no one accidentally walks into the middle of some faerie mischief."

"You ken the fey well, lad. What about the old cemetery, behind the school?"

When the town had first been founded, the schoolhouse had been built beside the church. Although the school buildings had expanded over the years and the church had long since been demolished to make way for the football fields, the old cemetery had never been touched. A high iron fence, warped in places but mostly intact, surrounded a tangled mess of weeds and lopsided gravestones. It had an air of desolation about it, and people didn't like to go inside. Kids would tell stories about ghosts between the graves and dare each other to walk through it alone, but apart from a few brave teens, no one ever really visited there.

Tristan nodded. "That would work."

"There are certain spells, incantations, that need to be said to prepare it for the fey," said Old Mac. "I will take care of this. You just lead them there."

"Will Dad be okay?"

"I don't ken, lad. You will have to be careful that when you leave the Gardens, you don't accidentally carry along any Unseelie. They aren't bound by the oath you made to the Queen, and they will fly out into our world, and remain here, weak by malevolent."

"I'll be careful."

She glanced out the window. "The full moon is tomorrow. The Queen will call on you tonight. We'll have everything ready by then. All you have to do is bring them to the graveyard. And stay out of the gardens. If the Unseelie take you too, we're doomed."

***

His mother had locked herself in the bathroom. Tristan placed his ear against the door; he could hear the splash of the bathwater and classical music playing from a tinny MP3 speaker. He couldn't hear her crying, though, but he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one, and he wondered if she'd given up hope. Tristan tried calling to her through the locked door, but she was gone somewhere else, deep inside her own pain, and she didn’t hear him.

He found Alice in the living room, sprawled in front of the TV, her dolls stacked around her in a kind of protective bunker.

One look at the forlorn newspaper crumpled on top of the TV told Tristan all he needed to know.

Another trucker had disappeared, somewhere inside the city boundaries, somewhere along the new bypass. They'd found the truck behind the butcher's shop. The final sentence of the article fell like lead into his stomach: “The authorities are now searching the river for evidence.”

Evidence. They were searching for bodies. They didn’t expect to find the drivers alive.

Another article beside the report declared that, despite the new disappearance, the weekend parade would go ahead. "It is just the thing the community needs," the Mayor claimed.

Tristan bit his lip. He wanted to tell Mom that he would rescue Dad, and everything would be okay. But he couldn't start talking about faerie courts and magic brughs, not when she was so fragile.

Tristan found a stew in the crock-pot in the kitchen, half finished, the gravy congealing at the edges. Mom was trying. She must’ve been making dinner when the paper arrived, and then...

The music blared from upstairs, louder than before, a haunting dirge flowing into a rising, crashing cacophony. Looking at that mix of gravy and meat and vegetables made his chest swell with emotion. Tristan bit his lip to stop the tears. They wouldn’t help anybody.

He dished up two bowls of stew, and brought them through to the living room. He gave one to Alice and sat down on the couch with the other. The meat was tough, chewy, and it settled in his stomach like glue. Alice wolfed hers down, her eyes never moving from the screen.

Tristan dumped the pot of stew in the overflowing garbage bag. He wound the elastic tie around the top of the bag and dragged it out to the mailbox. Owls hooted in the distant pine forest and a crisp breeze - refreshingly cool and not at all menacing like the breeze in the Garden - blew across his bare shoulders. He leaned the bag against the fence post and turned back towards the house.

"Tristan!" a voice barked.

He jumped. The voice sounded gruff, as though it chewed nails as it spoke. Run away, Tristan. That familiar voice inside his head urged. The voice wasn't his, but it sure sounded sensible. Without turning around, he sprinted back up the drive.

His chest heaved, and his breath fell on the breeze in short rasps. He could hear the whatever-it-was stampeding behind him, its hot breath on his legs.

"Tristan, stop!" the gruff voice barked again.

He felt the creature's hot breath – burning hot – against his leg. Tristan yanked his leg away, tripped on loose gravel and fell, skidding across the drive and skinning his hands. Knowing he was beaten, he turned around.

He faced the protruding snout of a massive dog, black as midnight and frothing at the mouth. It panted, breathing fetid air across his face.

"What are you? How are you outside the gardens?"

Silently, it pawed the ground and drew its gums back into a snarl.

Tristan stiffened.

"Never mind how I found you. I'm Cwn Annw. You're coming with me." The words grated like fine grade sandpaper.

"Why?"

"The Marble Queen sent me. It's time."

Tristan looked down in dismay at his torn jeans, football jersey and bare feet. He wasn't really prepared for the Marble Queen's task. But, if he didn't lead the Green Children to a new brugh, he would never see his Dad again.

He glanced again at the great dog, with its glowing orange eyes. "You are the Marble Queen's messenger? You are Seelie?"

The dog growled. "Are you questioning my loyalty?"

"No, it's just that, I thought you were Unse-" Suddenly, it dawned on him. "You're the shadow in the laundry pile, aren't you? You haunt my sister at night."

It wasn't a question. The dog didn't reply.

"You've been watching us from the roof of the butcher’s shop. But how come you can pass through the Garden walls?"

"I'm a shadow messenger. I follow close to you Iron-Dwellers, and you don't notice me. How come you ask so many questions?"

Tristan stayed quiet after that. He followed the terrible dog down the street and along the edge of the bypass. Across the road he could see the white glow of the faerie lights dotting the Garden fence. Their last night at the Garden.

The dog hobbled across the road, baring its teeth and growling low at a truck that sped alongside the gardens. The proximity of the clanking steel monstrosity didn't slow him. Because he's with me, Tristan realised. He’s safe with an Iron Dweller.

He followed the dog alongside the butcher's shop, crossing through the iron grating that marked the boundary of the Gardens. Debris and animal scraps tumbled from the overstuffed garbage cans. Suddenly, Cwn Annw disappeared into the shadows. Tristan froze, his eyes darting frantically around him, searching for movement in the shadows. Where’s the dog? Why has he left me here, alone?

"Don't you need me to lead them outside the iron gates?" he called out. “Hey ... hey, come back! Where are you? Come back!”

Run, Tristan.

He heard a growl, low and menacing, from the wall behind the shop. He took a step forward.

“Hey ... is this part of the plan?”

The dog stepped out from behind the building, and raised a huge black paw.

"They're all back here, and so is the Queen," growled the dog. "Follow now."

Run away. Run away NOW.

I can’t. Tristan squeezed his shaking hands into fists. If there’s even a chance I can rescue my Dad...

Heart pounding, Tristan stepped around the overturned garbage cans, and faced a horrific sight.

Faeries of terrifying form and colour congregated in the back lot. Hundreds of burning crimson eyes flickered over his body as he shrunk behind the garbage strewn across the ground. Forked tongues protruded as they lapped blood and juices seeping from old containers and rotting newspaper parcels. Boggarts, Ghillie Dhu and Gitto pawed and screeched and scrambled over each other, fighting over scraps of meat and sawn bones. In the centre of the fray, four men sat, their backs to each other, barbed ropes binding their hands and feet. Two loathsome Fir Darrigs, their skin like tarnished rubber, wrapped their bristled tails around the ankles of one of the hunched figures, who hugged his arms around himself, moaning in pain.

The figure looked up, staring wide-eyed at Tristan.

The world slowed, the sounds around him fading away, replaced with a loud, frantic buzzing inside his head. The terrible faeries faded into the ground, the walls, becoming part of the background. Tristan’s face burned, and his stomach collapsed in on itself, as if he’d had the wind knocked out of them. He struggled to force a word out- a single, strangled word.

"Dad?"

The figure smiled weakly and raised a listless hand to wave at Tristan, shaking a barbed shackle that encircled his wrist. It was then Tristan noticed the thorned collar his dad wore, and the long cuts that criss-crossed his face. His hair was matted against his scalp and flaps of skin hung loose from his cheeks. He crouched with three other men, all bound and bleeding.

The world came rushing back again. The stench of the garbage strewn across the concrete slammed into his nostrils. The frightening fey danced around their prisoners, taunting and jeering as they trailed wisps of black soot and darkness behind them.

Tristan stared in horror. He had been tricked. Cwn Annw had led him into a trap. These weren't the beautiful and mischievous Seelie faeries. They weren't even the determined and ugly solitary litterfey. These were the Unseelie: chaotic, malevolent, and horrible.

"Where's the Marble Queen?" he demanded. "I will do nothing without her present."

Unfazed by his accusatory tone, Cwn Annw jabbed his snout towards the Gardens.

Tristan turned, and saw her glide between the trees, her silver-grey skin shimmering in the feylight as she approached the boundary. Below her, tangled in the scraggly bushes enclosing the fence, he saw the shapes of the Litterfey scuttling away as silently as they could. Cwn Annw bounded up to her, barking with joy as he rushed to meet her.

"You've done well, messenger." Cwn Annw rubbed himself against her legs, and she patted his snout.

Tristan turned away from the Unseelie, balling his hands into fists as he crossed the road and approached her. "You tricked me," Tristan snarled, addressing her for the first time without fear. "You are not going to fight the Unseelie. You were plotting together this whole time."

"Honestly, dear. It was too easy." She raised her hand. Several of the iridescent pixies tugged on her sleeve, but she flicked them away in disdain. "I thought you knew your faerie stories, but you just didn't think about these things. We fey have been trapped here for centuries, waiting for our chance to inhabit the world once more. And, when the humans began to tear apart the Gardens and Iron-Dwellers began to cross into our lands, we knew our chance had come. As you are bound by oath to me, I alone now rule the powers of the Iron-Dwellers. I dictate where the Unseelie are to settle, and they shall settle in your lands. Though they will be weak without the power of a true brugh, they shall use the power of the Iron Dwellers to tear apart everything that is poisonous to us. They shall enslave the city and control the spirits of the dead. And, when the Unseelie finally destroy this city in their furious Slaugh, our faerie courts will once again rule together over humans, as it should be, and will be forevermore."

Tristan raised a hand, too, as if he meant to strike her. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but the anger was welling up inside of him, spreading from his stomach through his limbs, taking control of his body. "You can’t do this. I want my father back! Let him go!"

"And you shall have him, my dear, as long as you fulfil your oath. You must lead all the fey outside of these walls to their new home, and you must bind your Sight to the Unseelie powers, to break the magic of the brugh."

"I'll do no such thing until I see my father is safe."

"That's not how this works, and you know it. Now, go, fulfil your duty, and your father will be released as soon as the Seelie are safe within the walls of their new brugh. And as added incentive," she clapped her hands, and two faeries – old men with gnarled skin and protruding fangs – brought forth a cage, with bars made of twisted vines shot with silver, and a great padlock made from tree bark that glowed blue in the moonlight. Inside the cage hunched a weeping Alice.

“Twisty! Help me. They’re hurting me!”

Tristan reached for the bars, but the Marble Queen slapped his hands away. "She's bound by our magic. If you touch her, it only hurts her more."

Tristan squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't bear to see her suffering. "Don't cry, Alice. Daddy's with me, so you don’t have to worry. I told you I’d find him, see?" He pointed back towards the butcher's shop, hoping Alice wouldn’t be able to see the kneeling man from her hunched position. "Daddy’s right over there. He’s going to be OK. Don't cry now, be brave."

Alice whimpered in reply.

Cwn Annw nudged Tristan with his muzzle. "Go! I'm starting to weaken with all this iron around."

"What do I-"

"You just walk, Iron-Piper. We will all follow you."

“But my Dad-”

“We’ll bring him along, and your sister, too. Leave the others here – we will need to return to them later in the night to sustain our strength. Now, walk!”

Tristan marched along the footpath, glancing behind him as the beautiful white lights of the Seelie, and the dark tails of the Unseelie fell in behind him, skipping and slithering and fluttering through the bars of the boundary fence. Fey shrieked and screamed as they scrambled over one another towards the gate. The water in the pond rose into a high column, swirling against gravity as Cyhiraeth climbed out of the concrete bowl. Tristan covered his face to protect it from the beating wings that flew around him. He shuddered as rough bristles and slimy wings scraped across the backs of his legs. Bursts of light darted around his face as the sprites and folletti fell in with the shifting faerie horde. The willowy Ghillie Dhu unfurled their bodies like spring foliage and lurched along behind him as he neared the highway overbridge.

Finally, he saw the Marble Queen stalk past him, her skin gleaming like diamonds and a deadly smile on her lips. She was carrying Alice's cage under one arm.

He watched Cwn Annw stalk beside him, and noticed for the first time how his canine limbs seemed oddly bent, how his paws stretched like hands, how his face seemed flat, not like a dog at all. The realisation suddenly hit him: Cwn Annw was human once, that's what made him strong enough to pass through the walls into our world before. Now the Marble Queen owns him, like she'll soon own me-

The thought filled him with cold dread.

"Faster, faster!" Cwn Annw barked. "They are almost all free."

Tristan tried to look behind him, but he could see nothing but blinding faerie lights and splatters of black shadow. Something slithered around his ear. He could hear cars and trucks zooming below. Collective shudders rose through his entourage.

Tristan broke into a jog, and the fey had to race to catch up. Cwn Annw bounded awkwardly along beside him, his black fur invisible in the gloom.

As he raced across the bridge, he noticed the black shadows begin to peel away from the group, darting over the edge and disappearing into the city below. Tristan reached out to grab at one, but it slithered through his fingers, leaving a stinging cut across his palm. Soon, all the shadows had disappeared from the horde that followed him, save that of Cwn Annw, who still circled around his feet as he walked.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder, and saw two Seelie fey dragging the rowan rope on his father's bonds with impossible force, while his limp body scraped along the footpath. His father was no longer conscious. The voice in his head, too, had gone silent.

This is bad, he realised. This is very, very bad.

"Tristan!"

He squinted. The fey dragging his father came closer, pushing through the crowd to come up alongside him. Tristan jumped when he recognised Spindle and another litterfey, with flattened cigarette butts for limbs, holding the rope binding his Dad. Spindle was trying to hold his dad’s head up off the road, but it was obviously heavy and he kept dropping it.

Seeing his father's nose bleeding on the asphalt made Tristan's stomach clench. "Why are you helping them?"

Spindle put a bottle cap to his mouth, signalling for Tristan to be silent. Tristan realised the Queen had never mentioned what happened to the solitary fey.

He bent down to whisper to Spindle, "Who are you helping? Whose side are you on?"

The hound whirled around. “Who are you talking to?”

“Ah, er ... no one. I was just trying to get Dad to wake up.” Tristan met the dog’s eyes, keeping his face impassive.

"He won't wake up, you idiot. Not until the Marble Queen wants him to." When Cwn Annw turned back, Tristan glanced down at the Litterfey. Spindle cradled his dad’s head in his spindly tail, and winked.

On North Road Tristan turned into the gate of his school and cut across the playing fields, leading the fey in a direct line toward the back gate. He could see the cemetery up ahead, that tangled mess of weeds and crooked stones appearing to move and shift in the moonlight. The wind picked up, and the high iron gates of the cemetery swayed on their hinges with an ominous creak. It would've been a comical scene – a cliché from a horror film – if it weren't all too real.

Tristan pushed the gate open and stepped over the threshold. As he did so, something grabbed his stomach and twisted, wrenching him off his feet and down into the crumbling earth. His head hit an iron post and he saw faerie lights dancing in front of his eyes.

His stomach churned and cramped, and he tasted his dinner in his throat. What’s happening? It was as if some invisible force at the gate had struck him down. Tristan tried to move his arms, tried to sit up, but it was as if his whole body was made of jelly.

Beside him, Cwn Annw crumpled to the earth, his tongue lolling from side to side.

"St. John's Wort," he mumbled, "Someone put St. John's Wort on the threshold."

Tristan remembered Ms. McAllister talking about St. John’s Wort in one of her stories. It was an ancient herb poisonous to faeries. It could bind a faerie to the earth, and prevent them from moving. People used to place it on the thresholds of their homes, to stop the faeries coming inside.

I'm not a faerie, why does it ... Oh crap I'm gonna throw up-

"Yee'll nae disturb the rest of these fellows!"

He’d recognise that voice anywhere. Even through his pain, he managed a weak smile. He pried his eyelids open and saw Ms. McAllister swing an iron rod at the quivering Seelie, jabbing them back cross the threshold, into her circle of St. John's Wort. All around him fey dropped to the dirt, howling and clawing at their skin.

His vision swirled and blurred, then went black. He rolled over, retching on the ground, his stomach contorting as it fought to squeeze out the last vestiges of his dinner.

He felt hands on his back, pulling him up. He retched again. "It should nae affect you," Ms. McAllister pressed her hand against Tristan's forehead, shaking his shoulders. "What have ye done? Ye drank their water, aye lad?"

Tristan nodded, gasping for breath. "They've got Dad...and Alice...she drank the water, too-"

Squinting through his blurred vision, he searched the fey for the Marble Queen. She'd fallen in the middle of the circle, her lithe body convulsing as she lay in the poison herb. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she let out a great wail of agony. Alice, her cage pressed tight against the Marble Queen's breast, covered her eyes and met Tristan's gaze.

"The St. John's Wort won't hold them for long, Tristan." Ms McAllister cried, squeezing his shoulder tight. "We must contain them before they're permanently cast adrift into our world. Malice and havoc will follow in their wake."

"The Unseelie, they flew away. They're out there, in the real world."

"We'll deal with them tomorrow. Crossing the barrier will have weakened them, so there's naught mischief they can do until they regain their strength. It's the Seelie we must worry about now."

"What do we do?"

"I know a spell that will bind them inside the faerie realm for tonight. It is ancient and powerful. Once they are bound we will be able to free Alice."

Tristan nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spindle and the other litterfey drag his father's body close to the threshold. They waited at the edge of the gate, just outside the circle where the Seelie were trapped, howling and writhing as the herb bit deep into their skin. The litterfey did not seem to be affected by the herb.

Perhaps it's because they have bodies from the human realm, Tristan mused.

Panic rose in his chest as he stared at his father's limp body. "Dad's still not moving."

Ms McAllister ran to his father's side, shook him vigorously, and bent over to whisper something in his head. Spindle jumped on his father's chest, waving his tail in protest. Ms. McAllister made to grab Spindle, to throw him into the circle of St. John's Wort, when Tristan shouted at her to stop.

"No! They are good faeries. Please, help me over to him."

Her face told him she didn't believe him, but she dropped Spindle and ran to Tristan's side. She helped him to his feet, half leading, half carrying him back through the gates and around the barrier of St. John’s Wort to safety. He slumped on the ground beside his father, massaging his legs till the feeling in them started to return.

"We need to perform the spell now, Tristan."

Tristan placed his hands on his father's cheek. The skin felt slick with sweat.

"Just tell me what I have to do."

Ms. McAllister grabbed his hand. She turned to Spindle. "Can ye release this man from his bonds? His power would help us bind the Seelie."

Spindle shook his head. "This is Unseelie rope."

Ms. McAllister sighed. "Tristan, we're on our own, laddie. I'm going to chant something. I'd teach it to you, but it's in Gaelic, and you couldn't pronounce the words. I need you to focus on imagining a cone of power rising from the earth and surrounding the faeries. I ken it sounds ridiculous, but can you do that?"

He nodded. Old Mac squeezed his hand and began to chant. “Is maith liom bunanna mór agus ní féidir liom a bréag. Cé go bhféadfadh deartháireacha eile a dhiúltú...” The words were foreign, spoken from the back of her throat, twisting her voice in strange ways. She began to speak louder, repeating the verse, shouting the words into the darkened sky. He stared into the circle of St. John's Wort, where the Seelie writhed and swirled in agony. Their feylights shone bright, stealing all light from the moon and making the field glow like a spaceship. At the centre was the Marble Queen, her eyes closed and her hands bound tight around the bars of Alice's cage.

In his mind he pictured a whirlwind rising from the earth, surrounding the fey. It twisted and swirled as it rose, higher and higher, like a tornado swallowing everything in its path. He could almost hear the roar of it in his ears, growing stronger as Old Mac chanted louder. Goosebumps rose on his arms, as though he really was being caressed by the whirlwind as it tore the fey away from his city and back into their own realm.

The wind swirled higher, and the fey began to swirl too, every one of them sailing up into the sky, flailing without control under the power of the spell. The Marble Queen's eyes flew open as she was dragged upward, and she stared at Tristan with such venom. "You cannot do this!"

And Tristan pushed with his mind, and in his head he saw that wind pick them up and carry them all away, all the brilliant lights of the Seelie, up into the clouds. The air was blanketed with twittering wings and darting forms, with shrieking fey who knew they were being banished.

It's working!

His mind soared with the power as it coursed through him. He pushed harder, his mind carried along with the winds, twisting and swirling as he wrapped the Seelie in a prison of air. Old Mac's strange chant thundered in his ears.

Up, up he pushed them, away from the earth, away from his town. He began to close the winds around them, trapping them completely within that fearsome gust. Just as the winds were closing around the Seelie, Tristan saw a brilliant light push its way through and soar across the sky, back toward the Garden. He heard the Marble Queen's voice scream against the stars. "You will pay for this, Seer. You will pay!"

Old Mac stopped chanting, and the vision faded from Tristan's mind. The cone of wind vanished. All the feylights, and their shrieks and screams were gone. He blinked, and saw the circle of St. John's Wort was empty save one. In the centre was Alice, still trapped inside her cage.

“Twisty! Help me!”

He raced to her, grabbing at the vines that held the cage together. He expected to be stung with thorns, or repelled in some way, but instead the vines snapped under his fingers, so rotted and soft were they, and he pulled his sister free. She fell into his arms, sobbing.

Of course I got her back. The Seelie can never break an oath.

"Sssh, it's OK now." He stroked her hair. "They've gone. They won't hurt you any more. And look who I found?" He moved aside, so she could see their father lying at the edge of the cemetery.

"Daddy!"

She broke from Tristan's arms and ran towards him with an awkward gait, dropping down beside him. "He's asleep!" she cried.

Tristan ran over, too. He'd expected his father to be freed too, like Alice, after they'd banished the Seelie, but he was still lying unconscious, his feet and hands and neck still bound tightly with thorns. Gingerly, Tristan prodded one of the bonds. Blood welled on his finger.

"What's wrong with him, Spindle?" He asked the litterfey, who was still holding his rope.

Spindle tightened his grip on the rope.

"Spindle?" Tristan's stomach tightened. "What's wrong?"

Spindle stepped forward. "We're making a deal, Tristan. You're going to help the Litterfey find a brugh of our own."

"What makes you think I'm making any more deals with faeries?"

"The Queen escaped your bindings, and you know she's going straight to the Unseelie to make a deal of her own. You've got Unseelie out there, preparing to unleash a mighty Slaugh on your world, and you're going to need our help to stop them. The parade is tomorrow, eh? Do you want to know what the Marble Queen and Unseelie will do with all those people gathered in the streets?"

"Release my father, Spindle."

"Not until you keep your end of the deal. Not until you establish the Litterfey within a brugh." He wiggled his tail. "I happen to know of one that's recently become available. It's already charged with power. If we become the rulers there, our power will be strong enough to defeat the Dark Court and the Marble Queen, once and for all. All we need is for you to hand it over to us, all official-like, before the Queen reclaims it as her own."

"Are the solitary fey really strong enough to bind the two powerful courts?”

“We are if we’re angry enough.” said Spindle. “And I’m plenty angry right now.”

Tristan leaned over, and pulled his father’s head into his lap, smoothing back his hair and gingerly touching the lacerations across the skin. His father’s breath came out in short, ragged puffs. But at least he was breathing.

Oh, Dad. What have they done to you? “I don't want to help any more faeries."

"We understand, and we respect your decision. However, this is bigger than you, and that’s why we have him." Spindle leapt on Tristan’s Dad’s chest, and grabbed his torn shoulders in his sharp pincers. “He’s our leverage.”

Tristan's eyes narrowed. He swiped at Spindle, but the fey lashed at him with his spiked tail. A sharp pain bit into Tristan’s hand, and he jumped back. A long cut ran down the side of his palm, fresh blood mingling with the dried on his fingers.

Spindle began to drag his father upright into a sitting position. His dad moaned, his head lolling from side to side. His eyes fluttered open, briefly, then shut again. Spindle’s pincers dug into the skin on his shoulders, and blood dribbled from the deep cuts. "Let him go.” Tristan cried. “You're hurting him!"

Spindle shook his father, making him moan again. "I don't like it either, kid. But we need your help. And if this is the way to get you to understand..."

"Why don't you just ask me for..." As he spoke he realised what it must be like for Spindle to have the court faeries as masters, what it must be like to live in a world of faerie logic. It explained why it never crossed Spindle's mind that if he gave Tristan his Dad back, he might be more inclined to help. He switched tactics.

"Dad could help us," he offered, struggling to keep his voice even. "He's an Iron-Dweller."

"We don't need him. We just need you, Iron-Piper." Spindle sighed. "Look, can we just do this my way? We don't have a lot of time left."

"Well, then, you’d better do as I say, or I’m not helping. We may have a deal, but I'm in charge, not you. I'm not going with you unless you free Dad."

"Fine," Spindle grabbed the barbs around his father's neck between his pincers. Within moments he'd severed the rope. Tristan's dad gasped for air and rolled towards away from the faeries, his hands reaching out to clasp his son’s.

"Tristan," he croaked. "I tried to warn you-"

"What do you mean?”

“I told you to run away.”

“It was your voice I could hear inside my head?"

His father nodded, his face screwed in pain. "I don't know how I could do it, but when they had me, I could see you, where you were, what you were thinking. I kept trying to talk to you..."

"I heard you. It must be the faerie magic. I don't know how it works either. But that’s not important now, Dad. I had to let the fey out of the garden. We managed to bind the Seelie here, but the Queen escaped, and she and the Unseelie are now free in our world."

Tristan's Dad squeezed his eyes shut again, wincing with pain as he rolled over on to his knees. “That's not good.”

Spindle leapt onto Tristan's shoulder, digging his twisted aluminium pincers into his skin. "No, it's not. Lead us back, Tristan. Lead us back to our brugh. We'll stop them once and for all."

Tristan and Ms. McAllister helped Tristan’s father to his feet. He leaned heavily against them, coughing as he tested the strength in his legs for the first time in five weeks. They left the empty circle of St. John's Wort and trailed across the football field. Spindle perched on Tristan's shoulder, and the other fey – aptly named Smokey – hobbled beside him. Ms. McAllister followed, supporting Tristan's dad as he staggered.

As they neared the Garden once more, the night grew eerily quiet. There were no cars in the street, no revellers outside the pub, no kids lounging outside the skate park. Even the night birds in the trees ceased their song. They passed through the gate to the Gardens with ease, leading a trail of litterfey up the path. Deeper and deeper into the Gardens they strode, betwixt the brick and iron pylons, through the high-reaching ash and oak trunks sagging with mischievous sprites, past the wooden benches and into the central apse. It was completely deserted, only the empty fountain and broken statue any clue to what had transpired there.

"Here you are," said Tristan, setting Spindle down one the plinth that had once held the Marble Queen's statue. "The Garden is yours."

"C'mon, boys." Spindle blew a shrill whistle through the bottleneck that protruded from the side of his head. "We own this place now!"

The litterfey emerged from the bushes where they had cowered, crinkling as they shuffled across the leaf-splattered path. There seemed to be thousands of them, each created from scraps and shards of human garbage, each moulded and crafted to shuffle and skid and shimmer and float on the Gaoth Shee, like the other faeries, but more beautiful because they were made with human magic.

As one the litterfey descended on the Marble Queen’s plinth and - as Tristan’s dad gathered his two children in his arms and watched them work - they tore it down. Marble dust and rock flakes cascaded onto the grass.

"Welcome to the brugh of the Litterfey Court," Spindle kicked a shard of marble into the empty fountain. The fey cheered, and their cacophony filled Tristan with happiness.

"What about the other men?" Tristan's Dad asked. "The other Iron-Dwellers?"

"Oh!" Spindle looked surprised. "Of course." He snapped his fingers. Three faeries with tissue paper wings swooped down upon the trapped truck drivers, and with a few quick chomps, broke their bonds.

The men rose, rubbing their wounds and looking around the garden in amazement. "How did we ... what are they ... "

"We can't explain," Tristan pointed to the gate. "Just go home. Your families miss you. Please, just leave this place as fast as you can."

Holding each other for strength, the three men trudged off into the night.

"Thank you, Tristan." Spindle settled on his palm. "We have our new brugh now, thanks to you. You are, of course, free to go. We have work to do here. We have to prepare our home against the coming storm."

Tristan set the new faerie king down in the long grass, and patted him once on his aluminium head. Spindle raised one long, aluminium pincer in salute.

Ms. McAllister patted Tristan on the shoulder. Tristan broke away from his father’s grasp and embraced her. “Thank you, for everything. Thank you for all your stories, for helping me understand.”

"You are a brave lad, Tristan."

"C'mon, son." His dad tucked Alice's hand into his belt loops. He grimaced as his body sagged in pain, and he leaned on Tristan's shoulder. "Let's go home. Your mother will be wondering where we've got to."

“What about the faeries?” Tristan stared along the street, searching for shadows where shadows should not be. “They’re in our world now. Are we safe?”

“You have done what you can, and we’re as safe as we’re going to be tonight. We have to hope Spindle and his friends can come up with a solution. Now, please.” Dad pushed him gently towards the gate. “Let’s surprise your mother.”

***

Their reunion was happier than Tristan could have ever imagined. Mom sobbed into Dad’s shoulder, but they were tears of happiness. She heated up a frozen pizza and they all ate together for the first time in weeks. Tristan watched his Dad stuff slice after slice into his mouth, as if he were only just remembering what food tasted like. After the dinner they all lay together on the couch, watching the moon out the window, and Tristan’s chest felt like it would burst from the intensity of the happiness that welled up from within. Alice began to nod off. Tristan stroked her hair, realising how tired he felt, all his limbs like lead sinking into the floor. His parents tucked them both into bed, and Tristan heard his Mom run a bath. She locked the bathroom door and Tristan lay between the covers, his eyes closed and his head swimming, and listened to his parents murmuring as Mom cleaned and dressed his father’s wounds.

He woke the next morning feeling much better. It was the best sleep he'd had in weeks. He checked the clock – 8am. The parade would begin in a two hours time. Is that enough time to figure out how to stop the Marble Queen and the Unseelie?

All Tristan's mother wanted to do was keep them all at home so she could fuss over their father. "He's had a horrible ordeal," she cooed over the breakfast table, as she heaped bacon onto his plate. "He should rest."

"I'm okay, Sharon." He pushed her hand away, and took a big bite of his toast, as if that proved it. "A little bruised, perhaps, but the worst is behind me. I've missed the kids terribly, and I'd really like to take them to the parade today." He swallowed his mouthful, and shovelled in some more beans.

Tristan and his father exchanged glances. He didn't want Dad to go to the parade – the Unseelie would be there, and he'd learnt enough of what the fey could do. But he knew his Dad knew Tristan felt responsible for the Queen's escape and the Unseelie's release, and if the parade turned into a Slaugh, his power might help to save the town. He had to do something.

"I don't know if you should leave the house before you've had a chance to talk to the police." said Mom. "This whole case had them bamboozled."

Dad made his puppy eyes at Mum. The same eyes he'd made when he wanted to buy the giant plasma TV. She sighed, but it wasn't a real sigh. Her eyes no longer slipped down her face, and her skin glowed brighter than the feylights. "I'll get my coat."

City folk and families from the surrounding farms lined the bypass - closed to traffic today - waving flags and sucking down slushies from the cart outside the butcher’s shop. The local burger joint had set up a stand on the corner, and they were doing a roaring trade. Tristan sniffed the air, smiling at the familiar and comforting smells of cotton candy, hot dogs and roasted nuts wafted through the town. Retailers set up stalls outside their shops and sold bargain books and plastic jewellery. Children screamed from atop their parents' shoulders. Several of the city's cats prowled underfoot, howling in protest as pedestrians unwittingly stomped on their tails.

Excited whispers flew from mouth to mouth: about the spontaneous return of the missing men, about the vandalism of the beautiful water fountain and marble statue in the Gardens, about the mess of flowers on the school field, and all manner of strange noises and unusual goings-on of the previous evening.

“I went out this morning to check on my hens," said one farmer. “And you wouldn’t believe it. They had all laid eggs with purple shells."

"You're kidding?” gasped his friend. “I thought it was only mine!"

"My poor Rufus had one of his legs chewed right off!"

"Fluffy was crying at my door this morning. Some horrible person had singed all her fur – even her whiskers, the poor dear."

"That's awful. But you should see my fence-"

People kept stopping Tristan's dad, asking him what had happened to him, but he just shook his head sadly. "I don't remember." He hugged the children extra tight. Finally, they found a spot under the shade of the ash trees in front of Settler's Garden. The air was still: no wind blew. Tristan's father squeezed his hand.

Alice frowned at the trees. "They're gone," she said, sadly. "The pretty faeries are gone."

It just shows, thought Tristan. You can’t underestimate the power the fey can have over a seven-year-old girl. Only last night they'd held her in a cage and drugged her with faerie wine, not to mention the fact they’d kidnapped her father. But still, she still felt sad at their departure.

Tristan could hear distant bagpipes. The marching band set up on the town hall steps and would move at a snail's pace through the streets until they arrived at the city boundary of the new bypass.

"Pssst!"

Tristan looked over his shoulder. Spindle waved to him from between the bushes. A buttercup garland hung lopsided over his left eye.

"All our troops are on full alert."

"I don’t see any fey out here. Do you think the Unseelie will come?"

Spindle pointed. Tristan looked up. As the band rounded the corner, a sound like a helicopter landing flew overhead. The edges of a giant black cloud began to unfurl over the parade.

Alice saw the cloud, too. "They're back!"

The Unseelie descended upon the parade like fighter jets, screaming as they closed in for the kill. Several of the wingless beasts thumped across the highway, tripping the musicians and toppling over the police motorcycles. Tristan heard screams as ankles broke and exhaust valves burnt flesh.

The winged sprites flew at the crowd, tangling hair and biting at children. The parade erupted into chaos. Tristan’s mother screamed, and his father pulled them all down beneath the shade of the ash branches, his back against the iron fence. All around them, people screamed and ran for cover.

Tristan cried out as he saw something that sent a cold shiver down his spine. The Marble Queen. She had draped herself over the corner of the butcher's shop awning, twisting her gold hair between her delicate fingers, stroking the bristles of Cwn Annw, her shadow creature. She was laughing as she watched the madness. Laughing. Tristan's cheeks burned at her cruelty.

All the Seelie faeries were there also, he saw, flitting amongst the crowd, pulling up t-shirts and stomping on toes. Cyhiraeth sloshed through the band, clogging their uniforms with muck and spreading rust stains over their instruments. She found a way to break the binding spell.

The Queen's tinkling laughter carried high on the breeze, louder even than the screeching Unseelie and the terrified people.

A lot of good that banishment spell did.

His father squeezed his hand. "Tristan, is that-"

Tristan nodded. "The two courts are both free in our world."

The parade had stopped. People stared around in confusion, not able to move to safety because they couldn't see what was attacking them. Women cried as fey tangled in their hair, pulling and tugging at their scalps. Children cried as Fir Darrigs brushed past them, slashing at their arms with long claws.

"You're supposed to be a friend to humans!" Tristan screamed at the Queen. She only laughed harder, her emerald eyes dancing in delight as she surveyed the chaos below her. She raised her hands and chanted something in a language he didn’t understand, and a great, bitter-cold wind started to howl through the street, tearing up everything in its path, picking up tables and chairs and the hot dog cart and smashing them against the road. People clung to cars, lampposts, hydrants, anything to keep their feet planted on the earth. The fey tumbled around in the Gaoth Shee, the faerie wind, biting and snapping at anything in their path.

“Hold on, kids.” Their father pushed them to the ground, laying on top of them and linking arms with their mother before wrapping his arms around the iron rungs of the fence, holding them in place. Tristan covered his head with his hands and watched with horror as the grisly scene unfolded.

Only Tristan, Alice and their father could see the fey, of course. And this made the panic worse. Cwn Annw growled and frothed, leaping from the Queen’s side and darting into the crowd. The people could see him - for once he had been human - and they cowered in fear as he pounced on a young girl and tore a chunk of flesh from her arm.

"Let’s go, boys!" He heard Spindle yell.

Tristan whirled around. From the foliage behind him emerged a phalanx of litterfey, marching in tight-packed lines. When they met the Gaoth Shee they allowed the breeze to pick them up, carrying them into the fray.

People screamed louder, and no wonder, for when before they'd felt only the invisible hands tugging and biting at their flesh, now they saw great clouds of rubbish looming down on them.

"Tristan," Spindle cried. "I need your power!"

Not sure if he even had power, Tristan focused on the Marble Queen, sitting on her temporary throne, laughing at the pain she was causing. He imagined that same whirlwind of energy rising from the earth, surrounding all the faeries. He pushed with his mind, sending that wind of energy upward and outward, till it circled all the fey.

Tristan saw Spindle fly through the air toward the awning, his aluminium pincers outstretched as he reached for the Queen. Eyes flashing, she swatted at him and he stumbled, the sharp barbs on his tail tearing out a clump of her hair. She screeched.

Cwn Annw bounded through the crowd, bowling through Fir Darrigs in his madness to reach his mistress.

Smokey, his limbs ablaze, tossed cigarette ash at Seelie pixies. They tumbled onto the road, screaming as their hair singed and curled. The other litterfey pounced, pulling the Seelie and Unseelie to the ground.

Spindle took the Queen’s hair into his gaping metal mouth and slurped it up like spaghetti. No other faerie seemed to notice except for Cwn Annw, who froze, mid-leap, as if stunned, and Cyhiraeth, who instantly melted into a puddle on the footpath, washing several Seelie sprites down the gutter.

Suddenly, every fey in the street froze, some in mid-air, some poised over human victims with teeth bared and claws drawn. Every fey became as a statue, eyes glued on the awning, where Spindle stood triumphantly. The Gaoth Shee swirled upward, and fell away into stillness as quickly as it had come.

Spindle tilted his buttercup crown to the side, opened his mouth wide, and burped.

"You can all leave now," he said. "We have found a new brugh for you."

Painfully, as if their legs jerked and their wings fluttered against their accord, the faeries dropped their victims and moved across the highway and down the road towards the abandoned train station.

"No!" cried the Queen, as her own limbs jerked her awkwardly forward. She tumbled from the awning and landed on the street. Invisible hands pulled her to her feet, like a marionette. Her face streaked with asphalt, she began to jerk forward, following her kin. "No!"

As the people felt the tiny hands release them and the malevolent presence flutter away, they sank to the ground, curling around themselves in fear and relief. Several pensioners from the retirement village limped across the bypass towards Tristan and his family.

"You can see them, can't you lad?" a wizened man croaked.

Tristan nodded.

"Then the old magic isn't lost. You must ensure they don't escape." He pointed at the fluttering horde that scrambled around the corner after Spindle. The litterfey skidded across the road beneath them. Tristan let go of his father and scampered after them. Spindle led them down into the old railyard, across the tracks, over the broken pieces of locomotive.

Realising what Spindle had in mind, Tristan darted across the platform and clambered over the rubble. He saw Spindle hovering over the old iron rail car. Tristan crawled forward and yanked open the rusted hatch. "In here!"

Spindle waved his pincers, and shooed the fey inside.

Cwn Annw leapt in, snapping his teeth at Tristan's arm. "One night, in your sleep, boy, I’ll be there ..."

"Not likely," Tristan smirked as a heavy Fig Darrig crashed into the dog-man from behind, and he tumbled into the car.

When the Litterfey had rounded up the very last Seelie and Unseelie and had herded them into the car, Tristan slammed the door shut. Spindle called forth a faerie named Pinches - whose body was a set of discarded flat-nosed pliers - to pull an old iron pipe around the latch. The moaning of the fey grew muffled. The pensioners standing on the platform cheered, and whispers flew back and forth again along the breeze, memories of long-forgotten myths and centuries-old magic.

Spindle addressed them, although only Tristan and Alice could hear. "We will guard this prison against their escape, and we will protect this city from other malevolent spirits. All we ask in return is to be left in peace in our Garden. It is now plenty big enough for us."

Tristan smiled, and shook Spindle's tiny hand, the jagged metal cutting thin nicks cross his palm. He translated for his parents, and again for the pensioners, and again for the shocked mayor and there and then, amongst the wreckage of the failed parade, Settler's Garden was declared a faerie sanctuary.

***

"Hurry up, kids! Marcus, do you have your car keys?"

"It's such a lovely day," Dad glanced out the window. "Why don't we walk?"

So they did. Mom complained the whole way about her good sandals crunching in the autumn leaves, and Alice skipped in front, lost in her own world. Now that Cwn Annw didn't haunt her room anymore, she seemed happy enough to forget the fey.

"Wait till you see what they've done with the place," Tristan's mom gushed. With support from the new Settler's Garden Community Watch – a force comprised of several local pensioners and a few old hippies - she'd finally convinced the council to build the railroad café. The SGCW even helped with the early stages of renovation, picking up the twisted scrap steel and stacking it around the rail car. A local artist had welded the whole thing together into a remarkable installation. Every now and then muffled scratches and bangs rose from inside, but everyone moved about as if they didn't hear.

The food was delicious. All the time they were eating, people kept stopping by their table to congratulate Tristan on saving the village from the fey. He thanked them politely, while his Dad beamed behind him. Tristan beamed back.

After lunch they strolled in the Garden. A breeze blew, but it was only the autumn wind, no faerie magic. Tristan could see the litterfey swinging from the branches and sucking on honey cakes. Spindle waved at him from his perch on the broken water clock.

"Yuck." His mother shook a chip packet off her shoe. "This park used to be so pretty. Now it's a mess."

Tristan smiled at his father as they watched Spindle and Smokey glide across the footpath. "I think it's beautiful."

THE END