The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making - Catherynne M. Valente [69]
I did it! I figured it out myself, with no Fairy or spriggan or even a Wyverary to tell me how! Of course she would have preferred to have a Wyverary to show her, to be a great red ship for her to whoop and ride upon. But he was not here, and she was hoisted on the bursting, splashing waves by a ship of her own making, her hair, her Spoon, her dress, and her loyal jacket, who rejoiced, quietly, with her as the Gillybirds shrieked and sang.
The moon rose slim and horned that night. All the stars flashed and wiggled in the sky, so many constellations September could not name. One looked a bit like a book, and she named it: Ell’s Father. Another looked something like a spotted cat with big glowing red stars for eyes. She named that one: My Leopard. Still another looked like a rainstorm, and as she watched falling stars twinkled through it, like real rain.
“And that’s Saturday’s Home,” September whispered to herself.
The night wind blew warm and she stretched out beneath the orange sail, watching the distant, shadowy shore slowly slip by. She had not really considered the problem of food--silly girl, after all the trouble over it! And in the dark, she loosened seven or eight strands of hair from the raft and tied them to the wrench, hoping to catch a fish for her supper. Even September did not quite think this was going to work. She had some idea about fishing, since her mother and grandfather had taken her to catch minnows in the pond one summer or another. But they always cast for her, and baited the hook--ah, a hook. That was a bother. And no bait, either. Still, she had little enough choice, and sunk the length of hair into the lapping sea.
Despite everything, despite being terribly afraid for her friends and not having the first idea how far the Gaol might be, September had to admit that sailing at night, by one’s lonesome, was so awfully pleasant she could hardly bear it. That stirring which had fluttered in her on first glimpsing the sea--that stirring landlocked children know so well--moved in her now, with the golden stars over head, and the green fireflies glinting on the wooded shore. She carefully unfolded the stirring that she had so tightly packed away. It billowed out like a sail, and she laughed, despite herself, despite hunger and hard things ahead.
Somewhere towards dawn, September fell asleep, her wrench curled tightly against her, her hair still trailing in the surf, catching no fish at all.
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Interlude
In Which We Return to the Jeweled Key and Its Progress
Now, what, you have every right to ask, has happened to our erstwhile friend the jeweled Key, all this while, as such awful and marvelous events have befallen September?
I shall tell you. I live to please.
The Key finally entered Pandemonium and immediately knew the city to be beautiful, rich, delicious--and empty of a little girl named September. It drooped despondently and peeked through organdy alleys--abandoned, but not hopeless. It did not follow her scent, but her memory, which left a curling green trail visible only to lonely animated objects and a certain opthamologist’s patients, which doctor it would be poor form to mention here. Finally, the wreckage of Saturday’s lobster cage informed the Key in a breathy, splintered voice that the whole troupe had left for the Autumn Provinces some time back. The Key’s little jeweled breast swelled with renewed purpose, and it flew out over the Barleybroom and across the Meadowflats as fast as it could, a little blur of orange in the air, no more than a marigold petal.
It saw the dust-cloud of the velocipedes running, but could not catch them. The Key wheezed and cried sorrow to the heavens, but Keys have a certain upper speed limit, and even in love our gentle-hearted brooch could not exceed