Can the Boy Who Lost Fairyland Be Read Without

  A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS Book

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THE BOY WHO LOST FAIRYLAND. Text copyright © 2015 by Catherynne M. Valente. Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Ana Juan. All rights reserved. For data, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Artery, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Valente, Catherynne M.,

The male child who lost Fairyland / Catherynne Thousand. Valente;

illustrated by Ana Juan.—First edition. pages cm.—(Fairyland)

Summary: "A young troll named Hawthorn is stolen from Fairyland by the Golden Wind, and becomes a changeling in our globe, a identify no less bizarre than Fairyland in his eyes"—Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-one-250-02349-0 (hardback)—ISBN 978-one-250-07279-5 (e-book)

[ane. Fantasy. 2. Trolls—Fiction. iii. Changelings—Fiction.] I. Juan, Ana, illustrator.

II. Title. PZ7.V232Boy 2015 [Fic]—dc23 2014042417

Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto

First Edition: 2015

eISBN 9781250072795

mackids.com

Contents

Dedication

Dramatis Personae

Chapter I: Entrance, on a Panther

Chapter II: How to Send a Troll past Mail service

Interlude: Hic Sunt Dracones

Chapter Iii: Troll to Male child, Boy to Troll

Chapter Four: The Wombat Prince of Chicago

Affiliate V: The Adventures of Inspector Airship

Chapter VI: Tamburlaine

Chapter VII: The Monster on Top of the Bed

Chapter VIII: Delight Exist Wild and Wonderful

Chapter IX: The Emerald Thermodynamical Hyper-Jungle Law

Interlude: An Equation Is a Prophecy That Always Comes True

Affiliate 10: The Painted Forest

Chapter XI: An Audience with the King

Chapter XII: The Crunching of the Crab

Chapter XIII: Unhappy Anxiety

Interlude: The Girl Who Lost Omaha

Chapter XIV: The Changeling Room

Affiliate 15: The Laundry Moose

Chapter XVI: The Cranberry Bog

Chapter XVII: Jumping Edible bean Life by Wombat and Matchstick

Chapter XVIII: Someone Comes to Town

Chapter 19: The Spinster and the King of Fairyland

Chapter Twenty: The Boy Who Was Lost, the Girl Who Was Institute

For all my brothers,

those with whom I was a kid

and those who are children still.

Dramatis Personae

HAWTHORN, a Troll

THE Ruddy Air current, a Harsh Air

IAGO, a Panther

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, a Postmistress

SEPTEMBER, a Girl

THOMAS ROOD, a Boy

GWENDOLYN ROOD, his Mother

NICHOLAS ROOD, his Father

A Baseball game

MAX, a Schoolboy

HUMPHREY!, a Desk

MRS. WILKINSON, a Schoolteacher

MR. WOLCOTT, a Substitute Schoolteacher

MR. GRANBERRY, a Gym Teacher

TAMBURLAINE, Mayhap a Girl, but Perhaps Not

BLUNDERBUSS, a Wombat

SCRATCH, a Gramophone

CHARLES CRUNCHCRAB, King of Fairyland

THE SPINSTER, a Strega

BESPOKE ESPADRILLE, a Walrus, but Additionally, a Shoemaker

PENNY FARTHING, a Changeling

BAYLEAF, likewise a Changeling

HERBERT, a Changeling as Well

SADIE SPLEENWORT, a Sour Girl

THE OFFICE

MADAME TANAQUILL, a Prime number Minister

Four Vicious ALBINO MOOSE

Sat, a Marid

A-THROUGH-L, a Wyverary

AUBERGINE, a Dark-Dodo

SIR SANGUINE, a Redcap

THE MARQUESS, Former Ruler of Fairyland

GRATCHLING GOURDBONE GOLDMOUTH, a Clurichaun and Former Rex of Fairyland

SUSAN JANE, a Mechanic

OWEN, her Husband

MARGARET, an Aunt

Chapter I

ENTRANCE, ON A PANTHER

In Which a Boy Named Hawthorn Is Spirited Off past Ways of a Panther, Learns the Rules of the World, and Performs an Unlikely Feat of Gardening

One time upon a time, a troll named Hawthorn lived very happily indeed in his mother's firm, where he juggled the same dark-green and violet gemstones and matching queens' crowns every day, slept on the same weather-beaten rock, and played with the same huge and cantankerous toad. Because he had been born in September, and because he had a scar on his right cheek, and because his hands were very pocket-size and fragile, for a troll, the Scarlet Air current conspired to cause mischief, and flew to the creaky old well that served as the chimney of his underground house i evening just after his commencement birthday. She was dressed in a red breastplate, and red hunting boots, and a red gown, and a ruddy bandit's mask. Information technology is very dangerous below the assistant trees, in the Rhyming Jungle where the Red Current of air hides her secrets.

"You lot seem a sweetness and pliable enough kid," said the Red Current of air. "How would you similar to come up away with me and ride upon the Panther of Rough Storms and be delivered to a dandy desert that lies in the midst of a strange and afar state? I am agape I cannot linger at that place, as Parched Climates do not agree with me, but I should be happy to eolith you upon the Wild and Walloping Wastes."

"No, no," cried Hawthorn, who deeply loved his green and violet gemstones, and also his huge and cross toad. He began to wail in his whale-skull cradle.

"Well, then, come and exist a good boy, and do not thrash about also much, nor pull too harshly on my Panther's fur, as she bites."

The Red Wind held out her artillery, shimmering in reddish gloves, and Hawthorn, for a moment, was dazzled. He could not help it: He loved anything red. Leaves, some moons, rubies, ragelilies, claret, wine, apples (both toxicant and not), toadstools, riding hoods. Ruby-red was nighttime and fascinating. Y'all couldn't deny scarlet things. He one time saw a Redcap dancing on a wild moor all tangled with beautiful poisonous substance berries and had never wanted anything and so much in his life. He would have named it Walter and fed it fresh white rats. His female parent said rats would never be enough for a Redcap and besides the little fellow would certainly murder them all in their sleep the beginning chance she got. Hawthorn had sighed with longing. He kept a few mice in a willow cage by her bed from and so on, but in case.

Hawthorn's eyes got so full of the Blood-red Wind that he could see nothing else. So, fifty-fifty though he knew he oughtn't, Hawthorn reached out and took both the cute scarlet mitt of the Red Wind and a very deep breath.

The Panther of Crude Storms picked upwards Hawthorn in his soft mouth just as any cat might do to a naughty kitten. The bully blackness cat lifted the troll out of his whale-skull cradle, out of his lovely familiar plant nursery with its wallpaper of garnets and large, bluish, long-lashed optics, out of his cloak-and-dagger house, leaving a parlorful of untidy light-green and violet queens' crowns with enchantments still clinging to their prongs by the skin of their teeth.

1 enchantment had been bandage by Hawthorn'southward father, who, at that moment, lay sleeping in a long mulled-vino-colored sorcerer's cloak, snoring smoke-rings in his bed of green butterflies with a wand clutched in his arms like a teddy bear and gleaming things on his sleeping cap. It was meant to keep his son safety from marauding pirates, of whom he had an irrational fright.

One had been bandage past Hawthorn's mother, who, at that moment, was bending over an overturned church bell full of leprechaun teeth in a distant mi

dnight meadow, her arm muscles jutting. It was meant to keep her son safe from marauding disappointments, of which she had too much feel for whatever one troll.

One had been cast by a cabbage-gnome a hundred years ago. It was meant to wilt the leaves of anyone who forgot the gnome's altogether. Of these enchantments, one missed its mark, one bided its time, and i had no effect whatsoever, as trolls have very few leaves.

"Now," said the Cherry-red Wind, when she had Hawthorn firmly in hand upon her glittering ruby saddle, "there are important rules in your new home, rules from which I am entirely exempt, as Hot Air is the friend of all bureaucracies. I am afraid that if you lot trample upon the rules, I cannot help you lot. You may be ticketed, or executed, or elected to high office and given a splendid parade, depending upon the fashions of the day."

Trolls are quick learners and quicker growers. They speak as quickly as a newborn giraffe can walk and sprout up like pumpkin plants who have heard Halloween means to come early. Hawthorn was just a baby still, but tall as a tabular array already. He had made friends with all mode of words and some cracking good ones at that. But at the moment, the poor creature was far too terrified to utilize the better ones on the crimson-cheeked lady who had burgled him up as though a troll-kid were no more than a very fine hat in a shop window. Or her wildcat. All he could make out of the howling air all around them, the final shreds of his sleep, and a troll's blue tongue was:

"Is information technology and then terrible there?"

The Red Wind frowned into her night carmine hair. "All countries are terrible," she admitted finally. "Just this one, at least, has some lovely scenery."

"Tell me the rules at least?" Hawthorn said uncertainly. His father had taught him when he was quite small that if ane finds oneself captured by pirates, politeness pays better than sass, and Hawthorn had begun to experience that his current situation might share a beverage or two with piracy.

"Firstly, no magic of whatsoever kind is allowed. Community is quite strict on this indicate. Whatever charms, enchanted beans, grimoires, or talismans you lot might take on your person will be confiscated and sold as Christmas ornaments. 2d, the do of physicks is forbidden to all except young ladies and gentlemen with Advanced Degrees."

"But I similar physicks!"

"Information technology is certainly possible y'all may take hold of hold of a Degree," winked the Red Current of air, "merely I am afraid I do not know where to notice their nests. Third, aviary locomotion is permitted simply past means of Airship or licensed Aeroplane. If y'all discover yourself not in possession of 1 of these, kindly confine yourself to the ground. Fourth, all traffic travels on the right, except where it doesn't, and no signs will exist posted. Fifth, shapeshifting and glamours are restricted to October the thirty-first of each twelvemonth. 6th, all children are required to attend Schoolhouse, which is like a party to which anybody forgot to bring dial, or hats, or fiddles, and none of the games have good prizes. Seventh and nigh important, y'all will find that several things are extremely dangerous to your person, namely: iron, eggshells, fire, and spousal relationship. You may in no fashion permit any human to phone call you by the name your mother gave y'all or laissez passer beyond the borders of Cook County, or else you will either perish in a well-nigh painful fashion or be forced to sit through very wearisome sessions with doctors in thick glasses. These laws are sacrosanct, except for visiting demigods and bankers. Do you understand?"

Hawthorn, I hope you, tried very hard to listen, but though his mother had taught him brownie backgammon equally soon as he could whack two hazelnuts together, he ever forgot when yous were immune to plough your opponent into a raccoon, and he certainly had no hope of remembering such ugly and foreign rules. The rushing air current stopped up his ears and blew his silver-green hair into his confront. Its strands wrapped his chin like woolly scarves.

"Plainly, the eating or drinking of homo foodstuffs constitutes a formal and binding understanding to become mortal and never render, releasing Fairyland and all her subsidiaries, holdings, and most particularly, ahem, representatives, from all liability apropos your beliefs in Lands Beyond."

"What? What does that mean?" Hawthorn had every intention of eating and drinking until he was sick the very moment this ridiculous cat put him downwards. A goodly size moose might do nicely. Perhaps a polar bear. And a side of basilisk, roasted, not boiled.

The Scarlet Wind tightened her bandit mask. "That means: Off to bed and no supper for you, wicked Changeling child!" She laughed like the hot, heavy wind of summer crackling earlier a storm. "Sour and hairy, stiff as sherry, the dark of my starry sky!"

The Panther of Rough Storms yawned upwardly and further off from the asphalt chimneys of Skaldtown and the greenish mountains of Fairyland, to which Hawthorn could not even wave goodbye. The Cerise Air current hugged him and so tightly he could not fifty-fifty waggle his thumbs. And a good affair, too! Babies are forever rolling off of beds and ottomans and changing tables and Panthers. If their mothers do not take care, they might keep on rolling and rolling until they go all the manner to the body of water and are forced to learn boatbuilding and the language of walruses. Though babies are generally quite bounceable, information technology does not pay to take chances while at cruising altitude.

And and so Hawthorn could not say farewell to his firm, or his mother'southward trusty church bell, puffing clouds of luck far below. He could non wave adieu to his father, dreaming of quick, silent, clever pirates hiding around every shadowy corner. You lot and I might be well pleased about all this, having read a groovy many books that brainstorm in such a way and finish marvelously well for everyone. (Except, naturally, those who cease up in red-hot shoes or locked in a chest at the lesser of the sea.) But Hawthorn had not had a chance to read any books without pictures yet. He did not know that to be spirited away by ways of jungle true cat means that one may reasonably expect a heaping helping of adventure, a pot of daring feats to dip it in, and a hunk of wild coincidence to mop it all upward. He did not know that trollmothers and trollfathers but worry when they retrieve their niggling adventurer has been running nigh with poorly designed bridges of ill-repute. Once they detect he's but been meddling mischievously with humans, everything is forgiven. He did not know that he was headed, at the breakneck speed of flying folklore, toward the Province of Poorly Designed Bridges, the State of Quiet Libraries, the Kingdom of No U-Turns, the State of Shops Closed On Sundays. He did not know what was going to happen to him.

Only he suspected that he was at the beginning of a story.

Hawthorn looked upward into the deepening dusk clouds. I shall be every bit brave every bit my Toad, he thought, for my Toad never hides under the bed when she is afraid of lightning or bats. She sticks out her tongue and eats them. The troll stuck out his tongue at the whipping, glowing air current. He buried his fists in the Panther of Rough Storms, whose pelt was soft and night, and listened to the beating of that huge and thundering eye.

"If you don't listen my maxim, Miss Wind," said Hawthorn, "where are we going? After awhile we shall certainly laissez passer Pandemonium and the Autumn Provinces and the Perverse and Perilous Bounding main and only come circular to my house once again."

The Red Wind chuckled. "I suppose that would be true, if I did non know a great deal more about geography than you."

"I'm reasonably sure you know more virtually everything than me. For example, you seem to know that information technology's perfectly all right to kidnap poor trolls in the middle of the nighttime. Who taught y'all that? You must have had a very bad mother."

The Cherry Current of air snorted cherry clouds through her nostrils. "My mother could blow a hurricane out of 1 nostril and thump your mother at cards, boxing, and every 1 of the maternal sports! I accept a Receipt made out in very fancy writing indeed which entitles, nay, orders me, to collect one Changeling and deliver information technology safely in accord with local conservation laws. Y'all should feel honored! I chose you! Out of all the trolls in Skaldtown, all the hobgoblins of Spleenwort City, all the satyrs of Tusktug. I chose you for the Changeling life—my Panther and I promise you lot'll like it, and a cat's promise is…well, information technology'south every bit proficient as old milk, actually. But old milk makes a splendid yogurt, my lad! Doesn't information technology just! And when a Wind p

romises yous a rollicking time, concord on to your skirts and your hats and your billowables! Now, concord on tight, I've got to duck the gravity interchange or we shall indeed come round to your house again, which would be awkward for all of us."

The Panther of Rough Storms gave a shattering roar. Several fogbanks slunk gloweringly out of their way.

"Well, I think you're no better than a pirate. My father says pirates are the worst things in the globe afterwards Kings and centipedes."

"And what would you know? That might injure my feelings if we went on holiday together every yr and belonged to the same Blustering Order. Merely we take only just met! I cannot really be bothered past insults from strangers. Might equally well cry over the tide coming in! As well, without pirates, the sea would be an awfully boring place. If I am a pirate, pass me the grog! Poor lump. It's all right if you experience a flake cross with me and want to thump me on the skull. That's only to be expected from a Changeling."

"What's those?" asked the little troll.

"A Changeling, my beloved, is crude and wild, vaguely unhinged, a bit of a riddle, a scrap of an explosive, and altogether maniacal when its fur is stroked the incorrect way, which is always! Recall of information technology as an academic commutation program, my argumentative belladonna. Like the banshee amateur your uncle Monkshood hired when you were simply built-in."

"How did you know about Uncle Monkey?" exclaimed Hawthorn. The clouds gobbled upwardly his weep.

"I happened to exist performing my summertime ablutions but and then. She had on a accommodate of birchbark armor; you were all swaddled in salamander skin. She and your industrious uncle congenital quite a sturdy windmill that day." The Red Air current scowled darkly. "Harsh Arrogance have splendid memories for things that have tried to capture them."

Hawthorn looked out into the brilliant crimson clouds of the skies between Fairyland and the Other Place the Panther meant to take him.

"Fairyland is not unlike your cradle," said the Red Wind kindly, her maroon eyes flashing behind her mask. "We are going to climb over the railing while no 1 is looking, and when we have slipped the confined and snuck out the nursery door, we shall be in some other place entirely, which is to say, the homo world. It won't be long now."

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