The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making - Catherynne M. Valente [68]
She could not leave them there to wait for the Marquess to get angry enough to deal with them. She did not think they would get cozy government posts in the winter wilds. She would simply have to think, and think quickly.
September began to walk through the jeweled, silver beach, searching desperately for real wood, something that might float. But, she thought suddenly, it was all wood, once, on the other beach! Wood and flowers and chestnuts and acorns! It’s not really silver or gold at all! The wairwulf said it was Fairy gold! Like in stories, when you wake up after selling your soul for a chest of pearls and it’s all full of mud and sticks! September scrabbled in the flotsam and drew up a huge silver rod tipped in sapphire, something like her old long-spent sceptre, if it had been made of a giant’s hand. She tugged it down to the shoreline and tossed it onto the waves experimentally.
It floated, bobbing happily in the surf.
September yelped in victory and set about hauling several of the log-sized sceptres together and lining them up, side by side. By the time she had finished, the sun was very high, and she was all sweat from scalp to sole. But how shall I ever lash it together? She despaired. There was no silver rope or filigree wire to be had on all the beach. The distant dune grasses were short and sharp and furry, and would never do. Oh, but I’ve just gotten it back, September thought. Surely I could use something else. As if to answer her, September’s hand fell upon the handles of a pair of silver scissors.
Well. If that’s the way of it, that’s the way of it.
She held out the length of her hair, heavy and thick and not red at all, not falling away bit by bit. She did not want to sniffle--what was a little hair? She had already lost it once, after all. But that was magic, which could be undone, and this was scissors, which could not. And so, as the scissors sliced smoothly through her hair, she cried a little. Just a tear or two, rolling slowly down her cheek. Somehow, she had thought it would hurt, even though that was silly. She wiped her face clean. September braided her hair into many thin, strong ropes, and knotted the sceptres together into a very serviceable raft. She wedged the witch’s Spoon into the center of it as a makeshift mast.
“Now, I really am terribly sorry, Smoking Jacket. You’ve been a loyal friend to me, but I’m afraid you’ll get quite wet, and I must ask you to excuse my using you so.” September sadly secured the mast with the long green sash, and stuffed the jacket into a gap where seawater might come in. The jacket did not mind. It had been wet before. And it liked very much being asked pardon.
Finally, it was all finished. September was quite proud of herself, and we may be proud of her too, for certainly I have never made a boat so quickly, and I daresay only one or two of you have pulled the trick. All she lacked was a sail. September thought for a good while, considering what Lye, the soap-golem, had said: even if you’ve taken off every stitch of clothing, you still have your secrets, your history, your true name. It’s hard to be really naked. You have to work hard at it. Just getting into a bath isn’t being naked, not really. It’s just showing skin. And foxes and bears have skin too, so I shan’t be ashamed if they’re not.
“Well, I shan’t be! My dress; my sail!” cried September aloud, and wriggled out of her orange dress. She tied the sleeves to the top of the mast and the tips of the skirt to the bottom. The wind puffed it out obligingly. She took off the Marquess’s dreadful shoes and wedged them between the sceptres. There she stood, her newly-shorn hair flying in every direction, naked and fierce, with the tide coming in. She shoved the raft out to sea and leapt on, nearly tipping the thing over, clutching her wrench and using it as a rudder to steer her way. She would not have known to call it a rudder, really, but she needed something to push on and direct