Michael Grant - The Key

“Can we stop being cryptic, please, and get to the point?” Xiao asked politely. “My friend is not happy as a flower.”

Dietmar was unhappy with good reason—a pair of crows came swooping down and lit on Dietmar’s huge petals and began to pick at the seeds.

“Hey, hey, get out of here!” Jarrah waved them off, but they retreated only as far as a low tree branch and from there kept a close eye on Dietmar’s sunflower seeds.

“You tell the tale, Connie—you tell it best.” Frank indicated one of the female fairies, a dark-haired, dark-eyed, tiny little beauty in a deep-green formfitting outfit.

“How do you suppose MacGuffin came to be called Blisterthöng?” Connie asked rhetorically in an enchanting fairy voice. She kind of writhed or danced as she spoke. It was a sort of dramatic interpretation: she used sweeping hand gestures, and sometimes lowered her head in sadness, or threw open her arms to show joy. “For many long years after the Romans left, and after the druids faded, and as the new faith was coming to Scotland, the fairies lived in peace. We are a peaceable folk. No fairy has ever raised a hand in violence against another!” She made a very dramatic upraised-fist move on that last line.

Mack nodded thoughtfully because that seemed like the thing to do.

“Except for the Seventeen Year War,” Pete the fairy interjected.

“And the War of the Sweltering Cave,” Julia added helpfully. “And the Rabid Peace of Kilcannon’s Bluff.”

“With those few exceptions, no fairy had ever raised a hand in violence against another,” Connie reiterated, again with the upraised fist of forcefulness. “Unless you’re going to count the Battle of the Pretenders.”

“Or the Flaming Disagreement,” Frank said.

“Or the Pantsing of Fain’s Firth.”

“Or the Castle-Whacking Unpleasantness.”

“Or O’Toole’s Tools of Terror.”

“Or the War of the Noses.”

They went on like this for quite a while. And Mack began to wonder if the fairies were exaggerating their peacefulness.

“Or the Frightful Fruit Fight.” 5

“Or Little Dora’s Comeuppance.”

Finally, after about ten minutes, they ran out of wars, skirmishes, misunderstandings, slaughters, backstabbings, and murdering peaces, and Connie got back to her main theme, which was, “Aside from those few 6minor matters, no fairy has ever raised a hand in violence against another.”

Fist for emphasis.

“Until . . . ,” Frank interjected with great drama and a dramatic flourish of his wand.

“Until William MacGuffin stole the Key and used it to take sides with the fairies of clan Gorse against clan Begonia.”

A strangled sound—much like a high-pitched human voice coming from inside a flower—came from the giant sunflower. Lacking lips, tongue, or teeth, Dietmar had a hard time expressing himself clearly, but it was something like, “See! I told you so. Those are flower names!”

Mack ignored him and waited for Connie to finish her story.

The crows looked speculatively, wondering if they could make a quick in-and-out dash. Some seeds, maybe a little eyeball . . .

“MacGuffin wanted gold, and as you know, fairies have plenty of it,” Connie said. “So for thirty pieces of gold MacGuffin gave the Gorse King new and more dangerous Vargran curses. Curses that gave the Gorse King power over the Begonias and our beloved All-Mother.”

“Is there any way we can hurry this along?” Jarrah complained. “I’m beginning to regret we didn’t eat those ice-cream bars ourselves.”

“MacGuffin helped the Gorse to formulate a terrible, terrible curse.” Connie made an interesting move here, jabbing her hands forward away from her mouth, like stabbing finger-tongues. “It was a curse that caused a hideous rash in the form of rose thorns to grow in the sensitive parts of a fairy body.”

“Yeesh,” Mack said, and winced.

“Ah,” Xiao said, nodding her head almost as smugly as Dietmar sometimes did. “Hence the name Blisterthöng.”

“For a thousand years we of clan Begonia have thirsted after his blood so that we might have our revenge,” Frank said, shaking his little peace-loving fist and baring his sharp peace-loving teeth.

“Because of your peaceful nature and all,” Mack said dryly. “We thought MacGuffin was dead. It’s been a thousand years.”

“No, he’s not dead. He’s concealed by a powerful spell of the Gorse King. His castle is invisible to human eyes. Only those with the enlightened puissance—and few humans possess it—can see him or his castle.”

“That’s why you need us.”

“Yes, Mack of the Magnifica. You and these others—but not you,” Frank said, pointing out Stefan, who shuffled in embarrassment, “possess the enlightened puissance. I can make it possible for you to see the Concealed Castle of MacGuffin. And I can make it possible for you to see the All-Mother, whom only a few have seen before. And even fewer have photographed. You must take the Key from MacGuffin. And you must swear to free the All-Mother from the Gorse King’s spell.”

“Wait, I’m losing track,” Jarrah said. “This All-Mother of yours has the Blisterthöng rash?”

The fairies looked at her like she was an idiot. Which Mack thought was unfair since he had wondered the same thing.

“No. Duh,” Frank said. “She’s trapped in the body of a sea serpent.”

It took a moment for the reality to percolate up through Mack’s brain. Don’t blame him for being a little slow. He was very bright, and very attentive, but already the day had involved near death-by-car-accident and a vanful of fairies. So if he was a little slow, hey, give him a break.

“Are you talking about the Loch Ness monster?” Mack asked.

Frank bridled a bit at that, unfurled his wings, and rose a few feet into the air. “She is Eimhur Ceana Una Mordag, All-Mother to clan Begonia, as well as Beloved of the Gods, the Ultimate Warrioress, and a past holder of the record for longest sustained note on the bagpipes—they say many who heard were driven mad.” Then he settled himself down and, with a shrug, said, “But yes, most know her as the Loch Ness monster.”

“Well then,” Jarrah said briskly, “magic castle, some old dead fart who makes fairies get rashes, and the Loch Ness monster: all in a day’s work.”

Meanwhile, at Richard Gere Middle School 7

The golem stared at the phone. The message from Mack was very clear.

You have got to handle these things yourself. You have got to be a big boy now.

Yes. As usual, Mack had the right answer.

It was amazing, really, how right Mack was about, well, everything.

Clearly if the golem was a “big boy” then he could survive the shower. How much bigger? That was the question.

The golem began to text this question to Mack, but then stopped himself. You have got to handle these things yourself.

Yes, that was true, he supposed: responsibility. He would have to work it out himself.

Morning at school was always a confusing time for the golem. There were so many kids rushing this way and that, many saying, “Hi,” or, “Hey, weirdo,” or, “Get out of my way, you freak.” He tried to be pleasant to each and smile or say, “How are you today?” But it was hectic. Especially on days when Matthew Morgan would chain him to the bike rack or Camaro Angianelli would throw him into the bushes.

The golem didn’t quite understand what was going on—he was passing as Mack but he didn’t quite have Mack’s brains—but it seemed there was a sort of bully war going on at Richard Gere Middle School. 8Since Mack had left and taken Stefan Marr with him, the carefully negotiated bully peace had broken down.

Stefan had enforced peace among bullies by working out a complex system of assigned victims. Thus, under Stefan’s regime, there had been a bully for nerds, a bully for geeks, a bully for stoners, a bully for emo kids, a goths’ bully, a skaters’ bully, a rich kids’ bully—each bully with his or her own population of victims.