the mound when Mara was a girl, and ran through the woods in her dresses of hide. It’s a privilege of the sunset years to reminiscence, no one expects you to do much anymore, you are allowed to live in the past—and I do, spend hours on the porch, just talking with my Pepper-Man.
Mara is all grown up now, of course, has been so since long before the second death of Tommy Tipp. She takes off for days, hunting with her latest hawk, or creating mischief with Francis. The latter has a knack for it, stirring up trouble. He wants to take a child, she’s told me, a new and unspoiled child for the mound. Means to make it himself, in the belly of a woman. Means to raise it as his own, just like Pepper-Man did.
“It’s such a horribly male thing,” I said while watching the bleeding sunset, “that need to reproduce to prove one’s worth.” I have taken up knitting in my old days, to keep my typing fingers spry, and the needles were clicking merrily while we spoke.
“I do not believe it is particular for males. I think the need disregards both gender and species.” Pepper-Man has been wearing a uniform lately, a faded blue one with shiny buttons, complete with a bayonet. I’m not sure if he knows it himself, that he has donned these new colors. I’m thinking it’s an echo from his past, from way back then when he was alive. I could be wrong, of course, it could just as well be that I have warfare on my mind. He is what he eats—always was. Maybe it is my death greeting me, dressing my lover in a soldier’s guise.
“Whatever the reason, I would rather not see her entangled in a scheme like that. It’s not an easy thing, growing up between the worlds. She of all should know that.”
“I do not believe she thinks of such things. Our daughter is not a creature of compassion.”
“No,” I agreed. “She is many things, but neither tender nor soft.”
And that, I believe, is what caused all the problems.
* * *
We are entering murky waters now. We are close to the parts that concern you the most. We shall speak of the events that pierced your childish contentment and ruptured your lives. The things that have haunted you ever since.
We are nearing the end of the family Thorn.
XXI
We had good years, Pepper-Man and I, in the house you are standing in now. Mara too, when she wanted to. Since we moved further away from town, she was always welcome inside, but she is partial to the mound, my daughter—was born there, after all. Is a wild thing, always was. Just like Faerie.
It was here in the lilac house I flourished as a writer. The closeness to the mound was good for me, the closeness to my Mara. Money came trickling in even after Dr. Martin’s “Cassie fund” dried up.
Book money. Faerie money. Blood money.
All of which you are soon to have—if you only read a little further.
I spent years making this house what it is today; lived with carpenters, painters, and their rubble and tools. I ordered furniture and had strong men in overalls carry it inside. It was quite splendid in its prime, but as all things built on faerie land, the woods will always creep in and settle, line the bottoms of your shelves. What you see as decay is merely the woods taking back what once belonged to them.
We are just guests here, on this land—there will always be fungus in your bathtub, ants in your tea, and squirrels on your porch. Faerie woods are wild lands. Everything grows faster, higher. Everything is driven by an insatiable appetite, a hunger for life, hunger for living. In this, the lilac house is just an island. There is no point in trying to keep it neat.
* * *
I want you to know that I do know my facts from fiction. I would be a poor writer if I didn’t. I know that Ada in my first novel never went to Honolulu. I know that Ellie in my next one never fell in love with her sister’s widower. I know that Laura in my most recent novel, which was probably my last, never opened a hair salon and moved in with the janitor next door. I know that never happened. I know it never will. I have never had conversations with my characters; never dreamt of them