The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen - Delia Sherman [17]
At sunset, the trees clacked their branches to summon Folk to the Gathering. Astris and I crossed the courtyard and joined the crowd of moss women and flower fairies, were-bears and fox-wives from the Zoo, peris and corn-spirits and fauns all flying and lumbering and rolling and scampering toward Central Park Central.
A roiling fog at the edge of the field hung over the demons and water-horses and vodyanoi, the trolls and ogres and hags who ride the air with the Wild Hunt.
Astris and I joined Mr. Rat and Stuart Little at our usual Gathering spot beside a grove of pin oaks. It was close enough to the great lawn of Central Park Central to let us see what was going on, but sheltered enough to keep us from getting trampled if the Wild Hunt got out of hand. They’re not supposed to rampage at a Gathering, but you don’t want to get too close in case they forget.
As the sky darkened, the windows of the buildings around the Park began to light up like constellations of low-hanging stars. The trees gave a woody flourish, and the crowd of Folk parted to make way for the Lady’s Court.
At the head of the procession, dryads and nymphs trailing late summer draperies of dusty green and brown scattered dry leaves and twigs on the grass. The Lady’s scouts scampered after—squirrels and rats and a few big black crows flying above, cawing raucously. Next came the Lady’s Councilors, one from each of the different kinds of Park Folk: Nutter the Squirrel King, Chiron the centaur, Iolanthe the fairy, Pondscum the ondine, Snuggles the werewolf, the Huddlestone Bridge troll, and Herne of the Wild Hunt.
And at the end of the procession, surrounded by lantern-carrying fairies and fireflies, came the Green Lady of Central Park.
When I haven’t seen the Lady for a while—or have only seen her when she’s in a temper—I’m always surprised by how beautiful she can be when she wants. Tonight, her long greeny-brown hair bounced on her shoulders in a million ropy dreadlocks, and her brownygreen face glowed. Her fringed leather miniskirt and jacket were the color of fading leaves, and her high boots were bright green. She looked tall and queenly and proud, and not even a little bit mortal.
She walked past us to the exact middle of Central Park Central, which is the heart of New York Between, and held out her hands over the grass. The earth groaned and a granite boulder appeared, slowly pushing aside the grass and dirt, rising and rising into a granite throne sparkling with mica.
Everybody cheered, and the Lady sat down. “Moon’s up,” she said in a voice as clear as the night sky. “Let’s get this show on the road. Who’s got a beef?”
Officially, Gatherings are for business. Folk complain about their neighbors, ask for favors, brag about adventures, pay tribute. In Neighborhoods whose Geniuses have alliances with other Geniuses, mortal Ambassadors visit between courts, planning street fairs and trading mortal changelings and minor amulets and other precious things. The Lady doesn’t have any alliances, of course. She hasn’t had a mortal Voice to talk to the other Geniuses for her, not for a very long time. When I was finished being educated, I guess she’d have me.
This was a scary thought.
Across the lawn, I saw a forest of claws and talons shoot skyward: the Wild Hunt.
“Fuggedaboutdit,” the Lady said. “I ain’t in the mood for the Hunt’s bellyaching tonight.” She pointed to a leprechaun jigging impatiently in the front row. “Seamus, you got something on your mind, or do you need to go find a bush?”
The Lady was in a hurry. In short order, she disposed of Seamus’s complaint that the Glen Span Bridge troll was trying to steal his gold, the troll’s complaint that the flint sandals Seamus made him had rubbed a crack in his right foot, and a petition by the flower fairies for more autumn-blooming flowers in the Conservatory Garden. My old enemy