Jim Baen's Universe

Introducing: Stories by new authors

Red Tape and Cold Iron, or A Proposal for the Reintroduction of the Faery Folk To the United Kingdom

Written by Lucy Bond

Illustrated by Anna Repp

Once upon a time, there was a well-meaning but fluffy environmentalist on the government who, having heard of schemes to re-introduce wolves to the Scottish Highlands, and the success of the wild boar in the South, hatched plans to re-introduce fairies back to their historical homelands. From the whimsical American books she favored, she imagined picturesque creatures who would attract the tourists and protect the environment: perhaps a woodland holiday resort under a great dome where little flower-petal-clad lovelies would frolic for the photographers. She wondered who could help her to achieve such a thing, and put up little discreet notices on various boards in corridors of the Ministry, detailing the task.

Thereby, a civil servant passing by (who was, conveniently, a folklorist in her spare time) saw one of these odd little cards. She phoned the correct department and, with very little surprise or hesitation, agreed to go to the Faerie realm and strike a deal there.

In her private office, the politician, eyes misty, fingers stroking the pendant of rose quartz at her throat, spoke to her of ethereal ladies standing in gateways to the green forests, smiling benevolently upon the tidy picnickers. She then spoke of jolly little dwarfish folk working industriously in ethical mining projects, which would not impact upon the landscape in a negative fashion.

While the politician enthused, the Folklorist glanced around at the little tell-tale signs all about her: the crystal jewelry, the calendar of airbrushed angelic figures, the incongruous whooping of whale-song from a CD-player in the background, and took mental notes. The politician positively bubbled over with effusive thanks and delight that she had found someone who could get the job done. She was also secretly thrilled that it had been accomplished so quickly, and so locally, that she could whip down all those incriminating little cards and deny all knowledge if anyone accused her of being completely barmy. The Folklorist remained calm and polite, asking no questions, and accepting the many papers that required signing. Once again, the politician spoke joyously of the beautiful and just folk of Faeryland, and the calming, beneficial effect they would have on the English countryside.

The Folklorist had a much better idea of what this would really be like. Being more radically green herself, she thought it would be a splendid idea if those who flung trolleys into ponds and bathed unsafely in the deep waters were eaten by Jenny Greenteeth, or that people who blundered into swamps or climbed dangerous mountains unprepared would no longer be a burden on the emergency services, as they would be dragged under and drowned by Kelpies or carried off by marauding Redcaps.

She was not a cruel woman, only pragmatic, as she believed it would only take a few mortal deaths for the countryside to become a beautiful and unspoilt place again. There would be no need for ASBOs, with a few banshees posted to watch young offenders, following them around, wailing about their worthless lives, thieving intentions, and the doom it would bring on their families, yea, unto the ninth generation. All sorts of creatures dealt with vengeance and crimes of passion, if only they could be persuaded to work in a less chaotic way.

To this end, she proposed to offer them a Scottish island, as if they had a foothold in the mortal world. Having the deeds and ownership of the land, they would have back all of their old power, albeit on the condition that they worked with her and not merely for themselves.

She did not, of course, tell all of this to the excitable politician, especially not the part about the island, but she took the papers and, late into the night and on into the pale dawn, she corrected and amended them. She worked tirelessly, searching for loopholes that would bring unpleasant consequences, and adding her own conditions and proposals.

Then, much fortified with coffee, she set out to properly research the project.

After a proper breakfast, the Folklorist set to careful poring over dusty volumes in the reading-rooms of the British Library and in other more secret government repositories of dangerous and seditious books. Next, she consulted with others who had expertise in this field. This first involved much pleasant fireside chat with hedge-witches in quaint kitchens; later she moved on to heated debate with ceremonial magicians seated in Chesterfield club chairs in establishments usually reserved for only a certain kind of gentleman. Finally, she had a moment of revelation while leafing through the AA Guide to Mystical Britain. By the end of the day she had found what she believed to be a True Spell, and the location of a sacred and ancient horse-brass that hung upon the wall of an old, old pub.

The following morning this made for a very pleasant drive to that establishment, which I shall not name here. There she partook of a fine Ploughman's lunch and half a pint of bitter (for though she may well have been a civil servant, and a lady, she was, none-the-less, a Folklorist, and it is very hard not to be a lover of real ale if one is a lover of olde Englande) after which there was a heart-pounding bout of sleight-of-hand to get the damnable thing off the wall and into her handbag. The theft as yet unspotted by the barmaid, the folklorist left a little note, promising to return the shiny object as soon as she was back in this time and space.

So, with the advice of others, the proper tools and words, she was ready to summon the Horse.

Being an Englishwoman who had grown up in a rural suburb, the Folklorist had a love of horses originating in her childhood. In her village, most girls were pony-mad, and sighed over books, posters and magazines-full of shining horseflesh much in the way that other girls screamed over pop-stars. Therefore, it did not take a great leap of imagination to visualize the perfect horse. For one thing, she had doodled him in the margins of exercise books well into her late teens. Visualization, she told herself, was the most important part.

With the horse-brass and a box of sugar-lumps laid at her feet, a large, fat carrot in her right fist and a dusty tome in her left, she traced arcane symbols in the night air in her little back-garden, hoping the people at Number 37 were out for the evening. With some difficulty, she intoned the proper words, pulling herself up to her full height of five foot four and doing her best to look commanding in the tweed trousers, rather special brown boots and waxed jacket she had picked as being the most suitable outfit for the ceremony. It was not easy, she noted, to recite ancient verse while brandishing a root vegetable, in all seriousness; but something was being done correctly, because, with no warning whatsoever, the Horse appeared on her meager lawn.

If the stories were to be trusted, he was a quintessence of all noble and magical horses from history. He perfectly understood the thoughts and wishes of his rider, and his greatest power was the ability to walk from one realm to another, carrying his rider with him. It would also be very conveniently clear to her when he had arrived in Faerie, as in one realm he appeared black, but in the other he was white. He struck awe and respect into onlookers, as he exuded a great aura of wisdom from his dark gaze, and, besides, looked like a creature straight out of a pre-Raphaelite painting of Camelot.

The Folklorist blinked at the Horse, and the Horse blinked back at the Folklorist with his limpid, knowing black eyes. He gently took the carrot from her right hand (as she was still holding it aloft, open-mouthed) between his fine, white teeth and crunched it up thoughtfully. He then tossed his shaggy black head, as if to indicate that she should break open the box of sugar-cubes.

Giggling like a schoolgirl, the Folklorist ran back into the house to fetch her overnight bag in which she had packed many needful things. She grabbed her briefcase of paperwork, popping a thermos of hot tea inside and a travel rug under her arm. She brought more carrots, put extra food down for the cat, and locked the back door.

Then, with her noble steed, her horn-rimmed spectacles pushed back on her neat nose, and her laptop safely left at home, the folklorist rode into Faerie, where she would gather every creature, fair and foul, for a grand conference.

The journey itself was uneventful, to tell the truth. There was a brief delay while she struggled to tie her bags into panniers with parcel-string, and fashion a form of saddle with belts and the tartan rug. After this performance, the Horse seemed to lose all patience, as the moment she had scrambled onto his back he vaulted over the privet hedge in a stomach-lurching fashion, causing the Folklorist to be somewhat perturbed. But she clutched her flask of tea in one hand and a fistful of mane in the other, and whispered her destination into one large, velvety-black ear. Before the net-curtains had a chance to twitch at Number 37, there was a rather sickening shift in the landscape and geometry, they were suddenly standing in an open meadow, and the Horse was as white as a pristine sheet of A4 paper.

The Folklorist made a little note in a small leather-bound book and whispered a little more of her plan to the Horse, who, once again, looked thoughtful and did not move until she had dug out another carrot from her bag. Then they rode on, through places which seemed oddly familiar and wildly strange at the same time, much like a place you visit in dreams, but know, on waking, is a patchwork of memories, sewn together from