Herbie Brennan - The Faeman Quest

The little smile was probably a mistake, for it threw the cloud dancer into a paroxysm of fury. But now, instead of hurling itself futilely against the impregnable chest, it dived down Brimstone’s throat in search of the key. Brimstone mentally grabbed its feet and began to drag it back up again. The cloud dancer twisted, slid back up into his head and, in a fit of pique, began methodically to dismantle his brain.

‘It got a bit fuzzy after that,’ Brimstone concluded.

‘But it never found out about the angel?’

‘No, it never found that out.’

‘It just sent you barking mad?’

Brimstone snorted. ‘That’s what happens when you have a dismantled brain.’

Chalkhill was licking his lips again, but without the pervy light in his eye this time, which meant he was about to ask something important. ‘Is it true that when you’re attacked by a cloud dancer, it leaves you very sensitive?’

‘It usually leaves you dead.’

‘Yes, but when it doesn’t leave you dead. As in your case, Silas. If it doesn’t leave you dead, is it true it leaves you very sensitive?’

Brimstone leaned a casual elbow on the edge of the window. Chalkhill planned to kill him, of course, as did most of his former friends, but probably not quite yet. His questions, the way he held himself, the involuntary movements of his ears all suggested he was up to something – something for which he needed Brimstone’s help. Brimstone gave the hand signal that put George back on stand-by and said, ‘Oh yes, very sensitive.’ He leaned forward to stare into Chalkhill’s face. ‘Very sensitive indeed.’ He allowed himself to sink back into the buttoned leather seats of the ouklo interior. ‘Once they put your brain back together, that is.’

But Chalkhill ignored the sarcasm in his enthusiasm to scrabble from his pocket something white and lacy, which he waved in front of Brimstone’s face.

Brimstone drew back quickly. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a handkerchief, pronounced hankerchief or sometimes hankie. Humans use them.’

‘What for?’

‘To blow their noses.’

Brimstone stared at the handkerchief, then stared at Chalkhill. ‘What do they do with the result?’

‘After they’ve blown? They wrap it up and keep it in their pocket.’

Brimstone shuddered. ‘Gross. And I’ll thank you to stop waving that thing in my face.’

‘It’s all right,’ Chalkhill said, ‘it hasn’t been blown into yet.’ He leaned forward. ‘Listen, Silas, I want you to sniff this.’

‘No,’ Brimstone said.

‘It belongs to… a certain person.’

‘Who?’ Brimstone asked immediately.

‘I’d prefer not to tell you.’ Chalkhill composed his features into a look of sympathetic caring. ‘It would be better for you not to know.’

Which might well be true, Brimstone thought, since Chalkhill was clearly trying to suck him into another of his convoluted schemes. ‘What do you want, Chalkhill?’ he asked crossly.

‘What I want is for you to smell this, then track down where its owner is now.’ He smiled. ‘Like a bloodhound.’ The smile vanished. ‘You can do that now, can’t you? Now you’re sensitive?’

Brimstone hesitated. He probably could. He’d certainly developed some very peculiar powers since Dr Philenor remantled his brain. He could see George, for one thing, when nobody else could; and he could hear cockroaches talking to each other. Tracking somebody down like a bloodhound might not be beyond the bounds of possibility. And even if he couldn’t, it might be worth his while pretending. Although he was free of the lunatic asylum now, his funds were limited – much of his property had been sold off to pay for treatment – and Chalkhill had always been a bit of a cash cow in the past. Brimstone looked at him steadily.

‘What’s in it for me?’ he asked.

It was sooo exciting. Mella had never seen a human kitchen before and this one was absolutely nothing like the kitchens of the Purple Palace. They were huge, with great black log-burning stoves, enormous roasting pits and no less than seven rainbow-coloured flavour chambers humming with spell power. This human kitchen was extremely small by contrast, with no roasting pit at all, no open fires of any sort and no stoves that she could see, while the only thing remotely like a flavour chamber was a white metal box on a countertop that would hardly hold a chicken, let alone an ox. All of which begged the question: how did these people cook? There was nothing, absolutely nothing, here that looked like it might do the job. Yet there were pots and pans hanging from hooks on the ceiling, so cooking must be done somehow.

‘What’s that?’ she asked Aunt Aisling, pointing to a coffin-sized cabinet standing upright by one wall. Like much of the equipment here, it had been painted white, so it was unlikely to contain a corpse. But you could never be sure. Some of the earliest faerie histories mentioned humans who ate each other!

Aisling glanced at her in surprise. ‘It’s just a refrigerator. Don’t you have one at home?’

Mella almost winced. Home was supposed to be New Zealand where, she supposed, they must have refrigerators, whatever refrigerators might be. But she recovered quickly. ‘Oh, yes, of course. It’s just ours is a different… design.’ She’d have to be very careful. The last thing she needed was to raise Aunt Aisling’s suspicions, although Aunt Aisling was very, very unlikely to guess where she really came from. Mella allowed herself a small, secret smile.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Aisling asked.

Mella’s smile vanished abruptly. Her father had warned her there were two drinks that were dangerous to faeries when they visited the Analogue Realm. Well, not dangerous exactly, not poisonous or anything, but tricky. One was coffee, which seemed to have very little effect on humans – all it really did was keep them awake – but acted as a psychedelic on faeries, triggering visionary experiences. The other was tea, which Aunt Aisling was offering now. The trouble was, Mella couldn’t remember what Henry had told her tea did to faeries. He’d only mentioned it once when she was a lot younger and hadn’t really been paying attention. She hesitated, realised hesitation might seem suspicious, realised tea drinking was a common ritual among humans, tea drinking was expected, tea drinking was probably compulsory in New Zealand, remembered too that she was only half -faerie so it would probably have no effect at all, then said, ‘Yes, please.’

‘You put the kettle on,’ Aisling said. ‘I’ll find the pot. Earl Grey all right for you? Mother never seems to have anything else.’

Who was Earl Grey? What was Earl Grey? Maybe there were different types of tea. She took a deep breath. She was committed now, so it hardly mattered what type of tea she drank: she didn’t know what any of them was likely to do to her. ‘Yes, fine,’ she said. She’d read somewhere that human girls her age would signify assent by saying Cool, but she’d also read that the English always drank tea hot, so that would hardly be appropriate. Analogue life was proving a lot more difficult than she’d anticipated.

The kettle was easy enough. The design was much the same here as in the Faerie Realm, and while the kettle on the countertop was smaller than those in the Purple Palace kitchens and there was a funny little tube sticking out the back at the bottom, it was definitely a kettle. She picked it up and once again looked around for a fire. ‘Where do I put it on to boil?’

‘Is there water in it?’ Aisling asked.

Oh Gods, Mella thought. Where was the well in this little kitchen? Did it have a pump, or would she have to draw water in a bucket? There were no spells, that was the trouble. You had to do positively everything yourself. She shook the kettle experimentally and discovered to her relief it was already half full. ‘Yes, there is.’