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“PARCEL?” the creature barked thunderously.
“What is that?” whispered Hawthorn.
The Red Wind smiled slowly, her whole face filling up with wicked delight. “Why that, my excitable little emerald, is a human. I should get acquainted, if I were you. I daresay you’ll be seeing more of them.”
“Can I touch it?”
The human scowled. “I’ve never heard the like!” she snapped. “How would you like it if I asked to touch you?”
Hawthorn shrugged. “You can touch me if you want,” he said softly. And reached up his hand.
The human narrowed her eyes. She puffed out her cheeks like a great fish. Then she gave a short, hard laugh like a stamp marking a form and touched his fingers with hers. Her skin was soft and warm. His was hard and cold as stone—but for a troll, as hard and cold as stone is just the warmest and most wonderful thing to be.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the human. “I am the Postmaster General for the Commonwealth of Australia. You may call me Mr. Benjamin Franklin. Everyone does.”
“You don’t look like a Mr. Benjamin,” Hawthorn ventured.
The Postmaster General shuffled several envelopes together and tied them with twine before chucking them behind her into a large canvas bin.
“Long ago,” the Red Wind explained, “a wizard called Benjamin Franklin became so powerful, by means of a magical lightning-wand and an excellent wig and a fell familiar in the shape of a kite, that he was made Postmaster of a vast kingdom. Using his monstrous magics, he, the kite, and the wig founded the Grand Society of the Golden Postilion, of which all Postmasters are members. That is why they are called Masters, you know. Each and every one of them is a great Master of Questing Physicks. How else could a magical sword find its way to the bottom of a lake just in time for a little baby kinglet to wander by? Or a coat of many colors to a shepherd’s shoulders, or spinning wheel to a locked and hidden room, or a girl in the shell of a hazelnut to an elderly couple longing for children? The Post is how the end of a story gets shipped safely to the beginning.”
“Couldn’t you do it?” Hawthorn asked bashfully. The Red Wind scowled.
“Sure, if you want your pretty English sword to end up stuck in a stump in a Louisiana swamp and the poor croc who signed for it wondering what to do with the enclosed glittering samite gown and Welsh dictionary,” chuckled the Postmaster. “Nobody knows a neighborhood like a Postman. If you let Fairies handle their own shipping and handling you’ll end up with the whole world marked Return to Sender, Cash on Delivery, Fragile, Sorry About That Broken Pyramid, There Was a Dog, See? and dropped on the doorstep of some poor blighter in Perth who thought he’d ordered clothespins. Fairyland loves human rubbish as well; don’t let them tell you it’s all a lot of dull junk. They’ll murder you flat for a pair of boots or a good mirror. S’how I got my limp, you know. And God help you if you’re a clever nipper! They’ll tear the sky down for a strand of your hair. Believe me, it’s better for us to sort it ourselves. Someone has to make sure the mail flows freely. And despite Miss Wind here’s breathtaking grasp of history, she’s got it half right. Possibly one-third. You see, young parcel post, very few humans know about Fairyland—the heart is a Tidiness Engine when it comes to the task of Knowing and Unknowing, and it tends to clear out anything that doesn’t fit with what they’ve read in respectable newspapers and heard from people wearing glasses come springtime. Now, getting boffed in the face with a bolt of lightning tends to bludgeon a man’s ability to dust his brain-shelves properly. But it does polish up the windows! So Mr. Franklin the First acquired both a speech impediment and the ability to see through space and time, which is a fairly good bargain when you think about it. He saw a mess of swords and spinning wheels and children flying back and forth with no rhyme or reason, post haste, post hoc, post modern, post-post! The old man set up a system to handle the volume and here we are. All the Postmasters of all the nations take a shift. You’re lucky enough to get me today, not to big-note myself. Canada’s in on Thursday and he’s a bear before his coffee. We keep the secrets—the Postal Code is sacred. But Fairies live as long as planets, and we all look alike to them. They call us all Benjamin Franklin so they don’t have to remember that my name is Agnes Robinson and I have never worn a powdered wig nor electrified a kite nor earned myself even one goiter. I do believe that’s plenty of natter for you, young man. Step up here into the Postal Ruler, please?”
Hawthorn frowned at the enormous rusty slab of half-painted metal that appeared suddenly before him in a puff of stamps, dwarfing the counter. It had several slots cut into it of different sizes with all manner of things written over them. The letters had obviously worn away, gotten drawn back on, and then worn off again. He could see Benjamin Franklin’s face through one of the slots. Over the slimmest gap, Hawthorn read:
DOCUMENTS ONLY! GRIMOIRES/PROPHECIES/JOKES/CONTRACTS (DEVILS AND OTHER DAIMONIA USE CORRECT CUSTOMS FORM OR YOUR PAPERS WILL NOT BE PROCESSED!)/CURSES
On the next slot, a little longer and wider:
ENCHANTED SWORDS/PENS/CLOTHING (NO SHOES!)/ NOVELS/UNGUENTS/PERISHABLE FOOD ITEMS
The next said:
PORTENTS/WOLVES (MEDIUM)/CHILDREN (SMALL/MEDIUM)/ FOOTWEAR/GOBLINS/TRAGEDIES
The grooves went on, growing bigger and bigger, until they said things like DRAGONS and HENGES (STONE AND OTHER) and REVOLUTIONS. The Postmaster’s eyes glinted through CHILDREN (LARGE)/HORSES/EXISTENTIAL CRISES/PLASTICS/FLYING CARPETS/AQUATIC BEASTS/FETCHES.
“Come on then, squeeze in,” the Postmaster beckoned. “The Post waits for no man. Postage rates are determined by size.”
Hawthorn bit his lip and climbed up, turning sideways, to wedge himself into the slot that concerned itself with children and horses. But it was too large for him, as he was not yet a very big troll. He stepped instead into PORTENTS/WOLVES and found it quite snug, but if he held his breath, the ruler held him.
“Standard Priority Air Mail rate?” Benjamin Franklin asked, noting down something on her pad of paper. She used a beautiful yellow pencil with a pink nub on the end, so bright and cheerful Hawthorn immediately longed to steal it.
The Red Wind shook her head. “Special Handling. Fragile:
Excessive Narrative Weight. Changeling Type: Live Troll, Active Exchange.”
“Would you like to pay his return postage in advance?”
“Certainly not,” snorted the Red Wind.
“Would you like him Wrapped Specially?”
The Red Wind waved her hand in the air. “He can choose—I always find it’s funnier when they pick it all out themselves.”
The Postal Ruler vanished from the air like butter melting away. Mr. Benjamin Franklin emerged from behind the counter and took him by the hand. Her fingers felt moist and soft; Hawthorn suddenly worried that he might crush her, or any human, if they were all made of this velvety, squishable stuff. The Postmaster led him to a charming little desk on which rested several rolls of wrapping paper, spools of ribbon, and a handsome book of colorful stamps. The Panther padded along behind with his Wind, whiskers twitching curiously.
