The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making - Catherynne M. Valente [77]
“We’re a hundred years old,” they said, as though that explained it all.
The great orange lantern, which September could not help comparing to a pumpkin, flashed briefly for attention. Slowly, gracefully, golden, fiery letters began to write themselves on the papery surface of the lamp:
You use the things in your house
and think nothing of them. It leaves us bitter.
September put her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know! If a couch just sits there, looking like a couch, I can’t be expected to know it isn’t one.”
That’s the trouble.
But when a household object turns one hundred years old,
it wakes up. It becomes alive. It gets a name and griefs and ambitions and unhappy love affairs. It is not always a good bargain. Sometimes we cannot forget the sorrows and joys of the house we lived in. Sometimes we cannot remember them.
Tsukumogami are one hundred years old. They are awake.
“All my house…just sleeping until their birthdays?” September bit her lip, and looked out on the lonely grass. “That’s strange and sad. I often lose things, and break them, long before they turn one hundred. But…why haven’t you any houses of your own? Or a village?”
We spent a century closed up in four walls and a roof.
We are claustrophobic.
We prefer the sun and the wind and the sea,
though it bites some of us,
who are made of metal, and tears papery hearts.
“How old are you?” snorted Hannibal, the pair of straw sandals.
“I’m eleven, sir.”
A great consternation went up: kettles shrieked, swords rattled, shoes stomped.
“Well, that’s no good at all!” Hannibal yelled. “Never trust anyone under one hundred!” The throng of Tsukumogami rustled agreement. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. Folk under one hundred can’t be borne--they’re not mature enough. Not seasoned. They haven’t seen grandchildren come and go, or been left to gather dust in the winter while their family swans off to the sea for holiday! They’re unpredictable! They could go off at any second! All caught up in walking around and doing things!”
“Eleven!” sniffed the spurs. “Why, that’s barely fifty!”
“It’s not fifty at all,” snapped a silk screen. “It’s not even twenty. She might be a revolutionary! Young people go in for that sort of thing.”
The orange lantern flashed:
If she were a revolutionary I think she would have a rifle…
No one paid the lantern any attention.
“I certainly don’t want to be a bother,” demurred September. ”I'll go, I will. Only, I wonder if you might have something I could eat? It is a harsh life, at sea.”
“No!” snapped Hannibal, snapping his straps. “Get out! Young cretin!”
September knew when she was not wanted. At least, when someone hollered at her to get out, she could guess as much. But she was wounded--so many folk had been so kind to her in Fairyland. Her face burned with shame in the face of the cast-off furniture. But then, perhaps in the hinterlands, in the wild islands, the Marquess had not yet had a chance to force niceness upon them. She turned to go--and oh, she oughtn’t to have turned her back on them! But perhaps it was not her fault. Perhaps it was the sudden, trouble-making breeze that came along and drew aside the tall grass, just far enough that the flash of September’s black shoes shone through the blades.
Several broken bells clanged an alarm, and Hannibal stomped after her like a muskox. He tackled her, the soft smack of straw sandals slapped her back and knocked her forward.
“Shoes!” he crowed from atop September’s body. “Black shoes, ahoy!”
“Get off me!” yelled September, struggling under the sandals and trying to grab at them.
“Told you, told you! Even ninety-niners are suspect. Eleven? Why, that’s as good as saying: wicked and up to no good!”
“I’m not up to no good! I’m trying to rescue my friends!”
“Don’t care, don’t care!” howled the sandals. “Grab her, Swords! Don’t be too careful with your blades, either! Down the well she goes!”
Cold, sharp hands grabbed her arms. Kettle steam