Chapter Twenty-nine

The birth of Garana took place on February 29, 1919. It was a painless and harmonious delivery. They always are in Faerieland. Or so I was told. Why not? Was there any stress to deal with? Not at all. Except for human beings with guns.

I will attempt now (probably without success) to describe the celebration that took place in honor of Garana’s entry into Little People Land. I suppose I might have shown resentment that my daughter wasn’t named Alexana or something like that. I assumed that despite every emotional attachment I felt for Middle Kingdom, I was still, fundamentally, a human being, and my child’s name reflected that albeit subtly. Actually, I did feel disturbed by it but had to understand. Ruthana picked up my distress and tried to comfort me. Garana was still my blood daughter, she said. Nothing could change that.

Yes—the celebration. I did recall that my marriage to Ruthana was unattended by my Faerieland brethren. Because it was a polyglot wedding, faerie with human being—or mortal as we are sometimes called. But aren’t faeries mortal? Aren’t they corporeal as much as human beings? I guess not. They are partly (how much I never knew) also incorporeal? Astral? Ruthana seemed bodily enough when we were loving. Oh, who knows? I’ve been sidetracked again. Arthur Black would put me in a home for askew authors.

Well, I must, as best I can describe the natal day celebration. I said I would, and by God, I will. I might go off center periodically, but I do manage to get back on target. Eventually.

You know that faeries love to dance. No, you don’t. I never told you. Well, they do. A lot. As much as possible. And what better excuse than the birth of a Middle Kingdom citizen?

The music? Fiddles. Panpipes. Pennywhistles. One delicious melody after another. Did you know that many so-called folk songs were derived from faerie songs? For instance “The Londonderry Air.” That was one of them. Of course, there is a melancholy feeling to that one. There was nothing but joy and energy to the dancing music that day. All to the throbbing, mesmerizing beat of tiny drums, the rhythmic cadence of feet as they battered lightly at the ground. Whirling, jumping faerie figures, dressed in vividly colored costumes adorned with flowers, sparkling with jewels of every shade. Voices singing jubilantly, peals of buoyant laughter. These were happy people. No matter their size. They were surfeited with merriment. As was I, watching on the sidelines, enchanted by the sights and sounds of their delight. I have never, since, experienced such total exultation.

Which made the sudden silence an oppressive heaviness on my ears. I had to shake my head to clear it of the gaiety of musical clamor I had been relishing. I looked around in curious wonder. Everyone had stopped their excited jigging. They were starting to move near the edge of the immense glade we were in. Why? I thought. What could have caused them to, abruptly, terminate their beloved dance? Then I saw. The figure of a man emerging from the woods.

Gilly.

I thought (I hoped) that the gathering faeries were going to attack Gilly, showing angry disapproval of his unforgivable behavior.

I was fated to disappointment on that one.

Embraces were rampant, handshakes plentiful. They were glad to see him. He had, I suppose, discharged his punishment in the Cairn and was now being welcomed back once more, a full-fledged member of the clan.

Garal was beside me then. I wanted Ruthana, but she was still resting. “He’s passed his time in the Cairn,” Garal told me.

“Now what?” I asked. Tremulously, I’m sure.

“He’ll be all right now,” Garal said. Not to comfort me, I felt. More to put me in place.

“I hope so,” I said.

“I’ll bring him over,” Garal replied.

Before I could protest, No, don’t! he was gone. I watched as he entered the group. Respectfully, they parted from their leader, and he moved to confront Gilly—who was smiling broadly from his friends’ enthusiastic greetings.

Seeing Garal, he lost the smile, although its replacement was an expression of pleased respect. Garal gave him a welcoming hug, and Gilly smiled. They spoke briefly, Gilly nodding at whatever his father said, Garal now nodded as well, looking at his son with guarded assurance. He took Gilly by the arm and began to escort him from the clustering group. I felt myself begin to tense. Gilly had given me so much unwarranted angst. I was ( justifiably, I thought) terrified of him. What was he going to do now? Especially, after spending—what was it?—six months in the Cairn. The ugliness of which was only imaginable to me.

But now—incredibly!—he was smiling at me. Had he forgiven me? Reformed? Wonder of wonders, as he approached, he broadened his smile. He extended his right hand to shake mine. I felt a wash of tremendous relief. He had forgiven me! Well, at least, accepted me.

“I’m back, Alexi,” he said. His tone was warm. His handshake firm.

And tightening.

“Time,” he said.

“Gilly,” Garal warned him.

Too late. Gilly’s left hand—in the pocket of his jacket—jerked out. He was clutching something in it.

“Gilly!” cried his father.

Just as Gilly hurled the gray powder in my face. In my eyes. Pain!

Blindness.